


Hijos de la Cruz

by picklescantwrite



Category: Coco (2017), Disney - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 17:43:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 34,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14266287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/picklescantwrite/pseuds/picklescantwrite
Summary: A would-be origin story from the Santa Cecilia Basilica de la Cruz. Featuring a miracle delivered in a shoebox, a young soldier desperate to stand out, and a nun who's just doing her best to keep the walls from falling down.Sounds like the plot of an Ernesto de la Cruz movie? Then I'm doing my job.





	1. Sister Alcala's Arrival

From the beginning of her time in Santa Cecilia, a small agrarian village in the heart of the Puebla area, Teresa Alcala had her work cut out for her in making an impression. Her interview in the first week had been promising, but not definite; now she was being asked back again. Unlike most of the people in town, she could afford to live without work for a while - but it surely wasn't what she preferred. She had a mission as soon as she'd stepped foot in town and seen the impoverished church, this Santa Cecilia de la Cruz Basilica. They needed her; she just had to work to make them recognize it. Unlike what the rest of the Costas back home assumed, money couldn't guarantee her a thing. She would need people skills. Much harder to buy, especially with the more money you had.

In Sister Juanna's office, she towered over the other nuns, and it wasn't due to just her age and straight back. Even the only priest, Brother Marquel, came up to her shoulder; only Father Guillermo himself, the founder of the holy church as it (barely) stood today, could look her in the eye. She kept her eyes steady on him, unblinking, as she rattled off qualifications by heart. A nurse in a military campaign, a close and beloved relative of a wealthy family of doctors from Oaxaca, able to fund herself and whatever projects the church might need to fulfill. Experience with children - she'd heard of the struggling Hijos de la Cruz project, foundlings and abandoned children of the Cross with no home but the Basilica, and was hoping to concentrate her efforts in that area if she was allowed into the Sisters. 

Best of all, she had experience in treating disease; she'd helped her parents at work as a young girl once a bout of typhoid fever hit her town like the plague. It hit many, in fact, but Oaxaca had the least casualties due to expert care. And money. Lots of money. 

Meanwhile, the town doctors who couldn't afford the medical tools and expenses her family could watched their own people die before ending their own lives in grief. Whole villages turned to ghosts. Even as a girl, even as her own family reasoned they had done all they could, it wasn't enough for her to sit by and accept. That's why she had come to Santa Cecilia instead of being safely cloistered home; to truly serve God was to put all his people first, not just your own. Father Guillermo listened well: rapt, but immutable. He would say nothing until the end, like the judgement of Christ himself.

The sisters and Brother Marquel never listened near so well, never even tried, never even noticed that she didn't blink once and her eyes were full of tears. Instead they divided their attention between parts of her outer form; barely-hidden flaming red scars on her collarbone, a leather-skinned nearly charred left hand tucked away and balled into a fist. And even the sisters with the most extreme eyesight problems couldn't fail to notice the prominent break in her nose bridge, making it jut out heavily to one side. Such a young woman, with so many scars - although she was friendly and humble enough, it was clear this mysterious outsider carried some frightening baggage with her. Perhaps it wasn't the kind they could afford to welcome. 

They weren't so subtle. Teresa could sense them, these were the same looks she'd been given for the past fifteen years of her life. Nevertheless, she kept her secrets. She was gentle, but firmly brief, when it came to answering questions; facts were short and details distant. Nothing spared. She was widowed, no one immediate to her family remained; that was all she would say. They didn't need to know about Domingo and certainly not...him. The broken child. The one she cursed with a name. She couldn't think of it without further tension rising, so mentioning it would certainly hurt her chances. Her left hand was already starting to shake again. Stupid, useless-

Her appearance she kept straightforward yet vague, and she was used to handling this line of questions more than anything. Her nose had been broken as a young woman, some blunt force trauma that was irreparable, irreversible, and overall irrelevant - that was all she would go into. The hand was the result of fire - the rest remained unspoken. It wouldn't do her any good to mention that she'd been an active fighter in the major peasant labor revolution against the imperialist capitalist regime, not just a passive nurse in the whole affair. She'd used her healing hands to find desperate ways to kill, sinning against her own soul, and paid the price. Her nose had been broken by the butt of a military gun, and her hand, slices of her collarbone and part of her temple had been shredded in an explosion of gasoline that had killed half a dozen men two feet away from her. The bright blotchy blood red scar on her temple was one she kept out of sight and speculation, underneath her hand-woven headscarf. Woven with just one hand, it still looked pretty good. 

Her eyes betrayed nothing, but by now her left hand was shaking rapidly from anxiety. She worried that they might think by now it was from the devil, giving away some angry violent thoughts she didn't have. She needed this job. She couldn't afford to be weak. Why couldn't she stay calm? Just like her Tia Giora had told her - better to have cut it off before coming here and making a fool of herself. Stupid, useless-

Father Guillermo finally made a move, surprising her and the entire congress of nuns. He reached out and took her weakened, shaking in his, showing a smile as he blessed her deformity. "There is a home for you here. Welcome, child. I know you will do us much good, blessed daughter of Christ, and we shall give you your flock to tend." 

At last she blinked, smiling and sighing with relief. The hand in his grip shook, flexed, went limp, and finally responded, shaking his. It was not the usual procedure or way to seal an agreement before God. Especially with the left hand...

But maybe in this case, Teresa thought, God could take a page from Father Guillermo and grant this poor, rich, little, tall, middle aged girl some charity. The year was 1894, after all. Modern times. The perfect opportunity for change to happen. 

* * *

And right away, there were plenty to implement. She took note of her new charges; 15 children, dropped off unceremoniously at the church by starving or sick parents, either in the hopes of finding them a better life or having one less mouth to feed. Of these, 3 of them were toddlers who still needed special around-the-clock care. And for all these children, there was only one crib, a small cluster of fragile toys, no toothbrushes, bandages, or baby powder, and they were practically all fighting for blankets at night.

Teresa acted fast. The blankets and toiletries she was able to find in town on a bargain over the course of three days, and it took her three days more to finally receive a letter back from the toymakers in Oaxaca she'd commissioned, Flores and Sons. Porcelain dolls and spinning tops were all well and good for playtime, but these children actually needed something soft to hold at night. The letter contained sketches and notes, ideas for stuffed animals that were creative and would last long. It had been signed by the store manager, but the sturdy and adorable designs were trademarked on paper by his young son Carlos. She wrote the letter directed at them both, complimenting the designs and approving them for order, sending the money for it along with the shipment. Two weeks later, they all arrived to the thrill of the children, and from then on Sister Teresa was their absolute favorite. 

She gave them advice on how to use their gifts before bed ("If you ever have a nightmare, just whisper what you're feeling to the little fluffy things. They listen without judgement, and give you something to hold onto while the shadows pass."), and calmed the crying toddlers herself as she stayed up with them practically all night. Mornings while the children were at classes were her real time to rest, but not for very long, as around-the-clock care literally meant just that.

For two years, she tried to focus what little energy she had into the children's welfare, and she provided for many other changes to the church. An entire new wing to the chapel was added, on the condition that there also be new rooms built for the children's ward at the same time. She lost her sleep and her health, but gained more and more popularity among her fellow nuns and priests, and more of an influence in circle discussions on church matters. The only one who seemed to be skeptical about her rise was the established Sister Juanna, second in control of the church to Father Guillermo, and first in everyone's mind when they pictured real authority. Teresa gathered from the way Juanna looked at her that she wouldn't grow to like her exactly, this broken-nosed foreigner from Oaxaca, but she still hoped they could compromise and agree where things mattered most. Against Juanna's frown, Teresa remained civil and smiling as ever. 

Two years seemed an eternity with no sleep, but it was about to get even worse. Within the first three months of 1896, two babies were given up to Santa Cecilia's care. They were both tiny for their age, probably underfed, and the parents were sadly eager to get them off their hands. The families of the two men who bought them there couldn't have been more different. One was a father with five children who said the baby cried too much and spoiled everyone's dinner - when it was they could get it. The other was a timid man who refused to look anyone in the eye, only stating his wife had died of cholera and the baby would die too at any rate.

Teresa changed her entire schedule around, devoting herself entirely to their care and working to give them both the food and love they were missing. Luck was on their side; the tiny weeks-old girl, christened Ana, was quiet and malnourished but surely not dying of some plague. She drank her formula in large starving gulps and clung onto Teresa tightly whenever she held her, afraid of ever being let go. At least the grip meant she had enough strength to last. And the boy only older by months, named Ernesto, was similarly fussy and cried whenever Teresa stole out of the nursery for a moment. Sometimes even when she turned her back to him for more than a minute, he burst into tears and her heart would break at the implication this had. This boy had certainly been the runt of the litter, and the way his papa had talked about him showed that he considered this baby nothing but a burden. Hardly father of the year to his remaining children, she guessed - she'd take them all off his hands if she could.

Still, it wasn't easy with even just these two. Ana cried very little but depended heavily, and Ernesto's wails at night would wake the whole church if they weren't hushed immediately. "You've got to do something about that boy, Teresa." Ofelia was soon telling her, over the desperately needed morning coffee. "He won't shut up when you're away."

"I'm trying, I'm trying." she yawned, pulling herself upright as her elbow she was leaning on threatened once again to slip out from under her. "But you have no idea what I'm dealing with - you handle the children when they're at school. I have to be there for them all morning and all night, by myself. I thought there'd at least be someone helping me."

"We can't stay awake all night at our ages. You're the only one young enough to keep up with their energy."

"Barely...barely. I'm not trying to complain. I just need..." 

She yawned again, before continuing with a fresh thought. "Let me write to Oaxaca, Ofelia. There may be no one young around here clamoring to join the church staff, but where I come from there's plenty of options. If I can get two girls to help me - just to keep me organized so I don't drive myself crazy and can actually recharge some nights - would that be all right?"

"I'll take it to Sister Juanna. But she may take it as a sign that you're not at your best."

"I'm **not**. I **will** be with more people helping me. **Anyone** helping me. Asking for help shouldn't be considered a weakness - it's what we do for God all the time."

It took Sister Juanna a week to approve, probably that long for Sister Ofelia to keep pestering her about it until she gave in, and a month before two young ladies actually arrived. Both were in their late 20s, with no desire to raise their own families getting in the way of duty, and definitely could be considered fairer of face than Teresa and a better face for the future of the church. Teresa found Nina and Yemena to be highly suitable; they didn't make excuses and actually did their jobs. Sleep could be had at last, at least once the children had all been put down by the three of them, and Nina with her patience and stamina could handle Ernesto crying at ungodly hours of the night way better than she could. 

It seemed that things were looking up, and only the sharp pangs of wretched familiarity which wracked her when she held tiny Ana in her arms, could be registered as anything to complain about. But that was her own issue to resolve. She prayed to God to grant her patience, grant her peace and goodwill towards these children in need that were also His. To watch over them and let His will guide them safely to new homes. And as always, a miracle or two to shake things up. She secretly never trusted when things grew stable, because they never remained that way for long.

* * *

December 1, 1900. At midnight she sat up out of bed, startled but not consciously sure what had woken her. A storm was outside, howling wildly. Then she realized it wasn't the only thing. She'd taken a second to register it, to really hear it properly, but it was there. A baby's cry, almost lost in the wind. And by now the youngest child in the orphanage was far too old for that.

She grabbed her robe and raced outside, and was thankful she wasn't the only one who'd heard it. Nina, Yemena, and Sister Ofelia were all rushing inside the main basilica and Teresa followed, hearing that the box under Yemena's sturdy arms was where the cries were coming from. 

A shoebox, with no lid, left open to the elements. Fortunez Shoes. Was that a clue to where this baby came from? The oldest running business in Santa Cecilia, Ofelia told her. No one lived there but a wisened old businesswoman, it couldn't be hers. The box was just a box. But it didn't matter. Whoever left him like this, they probably weren't going to take him back. 

He was just a newborn. Most of the blood had washed off of him in the rain, and the umbilical cord had been cut in a very makeshift fashion. Fresh. They'd given birth and left him in a shoebox, with nothing but a tiny blanket to cover his body. But the rain had been too strong; he was soaked through and his crying was getting weaker and weaker. 

More and more Sisters fell into the church, and argued amongst themselves on what to do, only occasionally noting with shock that amidst everything else, Teresa hadn't bothered to put on her habits or veil. Teresa grabbed the baptismal cloth hanging on the edge of the altar to Jesus and wrapped the boy in it, rocking him and shushing gently to drown out the echoing din of chatter inside the hall. 

He was so cold. His cries soon gave way to breaths; wheezes, like that of an old man. Air was too heavy for him. She forced herself to keep pacing, not to cry, but her face turned red from the effort and she was grateful that it was dark in the chapel. At last the nuns in deliberation turned to her, stunned for a second to see that he even still lived long enough to keeping fussing over.

"Teresa, he's fading fast. He may be dead by tomorrow. Maybe tonight."

She wasn't sure who had said it, but she turned to face them with a defiant expression. Now the tears fell. With a restrained sigh and a gentle hand, she wiped them off the baby's forehead with the blood-stained cloth.

"Teresa..."

Sister Ofelia approached her from the side, and a weathered hand rested on her shoulder. She looked just as viscerally pained. Teresa grit her teeth, her breath coming in shudders, and despite everything she was feeling said nothing.

"Teresa, there's little hope for him now."

As the baby snuggled up against her warmth and lay still in her arms, Teresa redoubled her hold onto him. She turned to face Ofelia and all the sisters, and felt she was to be facing God himself this very night. Perhaps he had wanted a new angel all for himself. But he would have to wait. 

"If I can hear his heart beat, he's not dead yet. He'll live beyond tomorrow, I promise you."

None of the sisters dared to challenge her as she went back out into the cold, taking off her own robe to shield him from the rain. She didn't put the baby down for a second even as she reached the nursery. Ernesto for once barely stirred in his crib as she gathered blankets, formula bottles, and cloth from around the room - she was glad she hadn't been so frugal this past month. She wrapped him in the warmest but softest one of the baby blankets she could find, and sat down with him in her rocking chair, keeping a steady pace. 

His heart was like a hummingbird's, too fast for him to have fallen asleep, and as he struggled to cry she tried not to hold him too tightly. "There now. Warm here, safe here. It's all right." she whispered to him, trying to reassure herself just as much.

One tiny little cry escaped him after much effort. It turned into a cough soon after, but even that meant breathing. If he could keep that up, he'd last the night for sure. "Come on, nino. Keep going. Don't forget to breathe. You're safe now." 

As he shifted in her arms again, those unearthly pangs of heartbreak came back stronger than ever before. This boy had to live, needed to grow and thrive, not just for his own sake. She needed this boy to live. Needed, this time, to get things right.

She wouldn't name this one. Not until the danger was over. She'd learned her lesson long ago, learned what tempting Fate could do. She'd grown wiser. She hoped it would be enough.

"I won't leave you." she promised. "I swear I won't leave you. Just hold on."

The name she dreaded coming back from the grave flickered across her mind as she rocked the boy to sleep. Cutting into her like daggers.

Gabriel.

No, not that one.

He could have a name...

No, not this one. Not this time.

No weakness.

Don't love this one, Teresa. It'll kill him. 

It was weeks until she could leave the room again. Nina and Yemena took full responsibility for the children in her absence, and brought her meals twice a day when they could. Nina warned her when she could finally make time to visit; Sister Juanna was furious, said she wasn't doing her job, said that she was going to kick her out in disgrace if she carried on with this hopeless case. The boy was dying, and despite her ego she was no miracle worker. 

Nina herself was only doing her job telling her this verbatim, so Teresa immediately regretted the look of fury she instantly flashed her at this threat. With a sigh, she softened. She didn't want any of the Superior's negativity radiating down to the child in her arms.

"She's mistaken. The boy will live. He'll be the miracle, not I."

"Have you named him yet?"

She had only asked in hopeful excitement, so she was surprised when Teresa shook her head weightedly. "Why not, then? You say he'll live."

"It's a tradition where I come from. You don't name babies until after they have lived a month, especially when they're ill. Not until the danger's passed."

"But we're both from Oaxaca-"

"My family, Nina. My husband's mother said so. She said it invites the Devil to name a baby freshly born. I don't know if it's true...I won't risk that." He still wouldn't drink, and she was frustrated but didn't dare say so out loud. It would make it real. He still shivered on occasion, even when bundled tight. And his cries turned sour often, he coughed more than breathing. No, it wasn't time. Not yet. 

"Your husband?" Nina prompted.

"Dead now. His mother too. She had a name, look where it got her. Not even a headstone...I'm sorry." She turned her attention back to the child, and Nina realized she was apologizing to him. "No bad thoughts. Only good thoughts, nino. You're going to live." 

She smiled down at him, and almost in response, he finally seemed to find the strength to nuzzle against the bottle. "See there! Good boy, you're doing it." she cooed at him excitedly, and looked up at Nina with a wide smile. "Did you see that? He's a tough little soldier, muy fuerte." 

Nina nodded, and stepped silently out of the room to leave her to it. 

There was no denying it to herself anymore; Teresa was in love. After three weeks back and forth between life and death, this baby had a grip on her heart something powerful. When he finally was able to grip her finger she had allowed herself a good cry and kissed him. He was growing more hair, almost a full head of hair, which meant his body still wanted him to keep on living. The cries grew louder, longer, and for once she didn't bemoan the heavy feelings in her head and the dark circles that grew deeper under her eyes. She didn't want to take her eyes off this wonderful, beautiful child for a single second.

If Juanna kicked her out after all this time, well good riddance to her for giving up on this boy. She could take him and go back home to Oaxaca, to her family; he would want for nothing and she would be so, so happy. It was only later in the night, towards the end of the first month, that she dared to sleep for long and the thought hit her upon waking.

If she took this boy home, she was doomed and so was she. She'd been complacent before, and that had cursed her and the family she loved. God was loving. God was kind. God loved all his children. Fate was another matter. Fate was cruel. And Death took no bargains or excuses. She'd have to fight them all. 

After a month, she finally called a meeting of the sisters. Juanna was more than irked, she could tell by the red rising in her wrinkled face. But at least she let her speak. Half the sisters there were convinced that she would indeed quit them, devote the rest of her care to this boy instead of to God, and they feared what would happen without her.

But instead, she gave them the one decision she couldn't afford to make. "This boy will live. It's been a long road for him, but I know he'll recover. He can be one of our children at last. So he'll need a name. It's a long story, but I'm not fit to give him one. I hope you can decide upon it."

"You're not fit to?" 

Sister Ofelia was the first to raise her voice, without any hesitancy. "Then my dear, who is?" Teresa's heart went out to her, and almost as if feeling it jump, the baby in her arms kicked up his legs in response. Quite a recovery indeed.

"We should decide together." Nina compromised, and they all nodded. She turned her attention to the back row. "Or maybe Sister Juanna should..."

She was met with a raised eyebrow, and backtracked "...never mind, we'll all decide together."

Of course many biblical names were passed around the room, almost everything save Jesus. Now the heated talks were all about his living future, not how much each of them could afford a coffin to bury him in. Indeed a miracle. While they fussed over it, Teresa grabbed onto one of his feet as he kicked again and shook it at him playfully, making him burble and smile.

"Ay, you're liable to kick my good hand off, nino." she teased him.

"Teresa?"

She turned her attention back to the crowd around her. "What about your suggestion?" Nina asked.

"I'm sure it's no better than anyone else's. Probably worse." 

"Well, we can't decide. Maybe give it another month?" Sister Rodolpha joked, and Teresa wasn't sure from the tone whether she was being dark about it or not. She held him to her more tightly, just in case.

"Maybe you're right, sisters. I'll decide something. I don't want to take up your time with such a trivial matter. We have much to focus on."

"Yes. Much." 

It was the only time Juanna had bothered to speak up, but her few words and their many implications weighed heavily. Teresa would indeed have to make a decision fast - if she wanted to still have her job by tomorrow. Teresa nodded, and left the room, bouncing the baby along as she walked once she was out of sight of the congress of nuns. 

The next morning, she'd gathered them all again, a smile playing on her face. "His name is Héctor." she told them, straightforwardly, and to her the baby seemed to gurgle in agreement. This time, more than just Sister Juanna raised their eyebrows.

"How did you come by that one?" Sister Aliza asked her skeptically.

"He told me so." She was barely hiding the gigantic amount of fun she was having at this answer, as the nuns looked around the room at each other. Only Sister Nina seemed to giggle at it.

"He...told you his name."

"Yes. I was falling asleep last night, and in a dream he told it to me." She rocked him back and forth excitedly. "How many babies do you know of that can do **that**? I told you, he is a miracle. A special little boy."

Caught up in her own fun, she dipped him, and he kicked his foot up again at her in response. The rest of the nuns watched, stunned at this display, but they all eventually shrugged their shoulders.

Well, it was just one more baby...what harm could it do? 


	2. First Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An aside: notes on the baby orphans of Santa Cecilia de la Cruz

Teresa had arrived at an interesting time; many of the orphans of Santa Cecilia were old enough to be used to a specific way of doing things, even if it wasn't the best way possible. The shake-ups caused by Teresa's reforms and new changes to their welfare and health were more widely felt. As for the three young toddlers in the in-between stages - still in the nursery, but old enough to be taking part alongside everyone else - things were more complicated. Now there was this new lady taking care of them all the time, and they took a while to warm up to her.

For Teresa herself, it was much easier to, and she loved asking the other nuns who'd been with the children longer stories about all of them. Her favorites were the ones that encapsulated their personalities; their first words. 

* * *

  _Pollo_

Isidro and his mother, for lack of a hospital, were brought to the church and quarantined when Isi was just a year old. A mysterious bout of scarlet fever, forsaking everyone else in town, had hit them both and threatened their lives. The Sisters wrote for a doctor but by the time he’d arrived, it had already claimed Isi’s mother. It had taken all the good doctor’s strength and a miracle, but Isi managed to live.

Scarlet fever affected everything, especially in one still so young. The baby was almost blind, deaf, could barely eat without throwing food back up, could barely cry from damage to his vocal chords, and was sensitive to any kind of temperatures and pressure that weren’t exactly a happy medium. Sister Juanna called it a nightmare existence, and as the months dragged on and the few funds the church had to spare for the doctor’s extended stay ran dry, she’d recommended they stop the treatment entirely before they had nothing left to give to the rest of the orphans.

Sister Ofelia, who Teresa had suspected from the beginning would be her favorite sister anyway, had put her foot down hard, a rare show of display against Sister Juanna that none of the nuns had dared. It was the one and only time, too, that they had heard Sister Juanna apologize, after hearing Ofelia say that if her heart was smaller than her purse, she’d pay the man out of her own pockets to stay another year if he had to. This had been three years before Teresa arrived, and the reverberations from this shake-up in power were still being felt. Juanna never looked Sister Ofelia in the eye again, and every outsider to her was just as bad as disease itself. In Teresa’s case, she’d been overruled…but she’d never let her forget it.

But ultimately what mattered was that Isi survived. And not only that, he healed; he was finally able to graduate from hot milk to soft foods, finally gathered up the strength to start walking at a year and a half. And his first words came shortly after; after years of blackness, then blurry lights and shapes, and finally vague outlines and fuzzy corners on otherwise clearer projections, he gave the Sisters proof that their hard work had finally paid off. Pointing out of the window at the open field one morning while Sister Ofelia was changing him, he’d spotted a brown rooster pecking the grass.

“Pollo” he’d said proudly, and Ofelia had just about fainted from shock, before running off once she’d dressed him to tell all the sisters about it. He spent the rest of the day repeating the trick to everyone, and getting more and more confident in his own newfound sight.

Not only was his vision better (and once he’d gotten a pair of wire spectacles, doubly so), but his mind was sharp enough on its own to have recognized the bird, put a definite name to the shape. Ofelia took pride in telling Teresa how smart he was from the beginning, how he greeted people at the windows all the time as a little boy, how he took to books once he’d mastered walking and talking. Teresa listened with a smile almost as wide as Ofelia’s was; she understood completely how much the Sisters loved him. Isi was two when she’d arrived and already rather adorably felt he had the run of the place from the way everybody treated him. The only ones who didn’t give into anything special with him were Yemena, whose skills didn’t lie in befriending children so much as maintaining order among them, and herself. She loved the boy as much as the other children she cared for, sure – but Isi had already been healthy for many many months before she came, and most of her fondness lay with the children she’d taken care of personally. And once the tiny little Héctor had come along, he’d changed everything.

Still, it had been hard for her heart not to melt when Isi gave her a new name, like the rest of the Sisters he grew up with – TeeTee. He’d eventually forget about it as he grew older, but after hearing the story for herself she’d never let him forget his first words. Much to his chagrin, she and Ofelia always called him “Little Pollo” in addition to Isi, which made him roll his cloudy brown eyes behind thin wire frames. It was a shame he’d decided on growing up so fast, but then again, he was dead set on an education and becoming a doctor himself. He’d often ask Teresa for practical advice in addition to perusing the limited medical books the church had, which she gave freely.

Years later, another miracle; the same doctor who treated Isi many years ago came back with a wife, and a desire for a new assistant. Isidro left the church and Santa Cecilia with a new family at ten years old, happy to have his future set in stone. He may have put on an intellectual stone-faced front, but he never forgot to write letters back to Sisters Ofelia and Teresa to tell them how he was, and show them how much he still cared. One of the last letters Teresa herself would ever write would be a short note to the 21-year old university graduate Isidro, telling him how much she was proud of him.

_Doll_

Margarita had been the oldest of the ‘babies’ at three when Teresa arrived, and unlike the others had been in perfect health. She always seemed eager to explore without getting into too much trouble, self-reliant in a lot more ways than her fellow tots, and loved to copy the mannerisms of the other nuns by dressing herself up in long blankets as robes and imitating their mumblings at prayers. And like the other nuns who looked after children, all of the dolls were automatically her babies. Whether they were the finest made or barely more than a flour sack stitched crudely into a human shape, she loved them all.

Her first word in fact had been “doll”, which she’d said happily many weeks after receiving her first one, still in love with it. And when Teresa had brought in toys for all the children, she was overjoyed to have so many new friends. But thankfully, rather than hoarding them for herself, she double-checked on her own time along with the rest of the nuns every night, to make sure every child had a toy of their own. 

_Papa_

Donello’s story was the regular church favorite to tell to newcomers around their morning coffee. Donny had crawled away from his caretaker one morning at a very young age, and when the poor woman had managed to find him (some said it was Sister Rodolpha, other Sister Marcella – Ofelia when she told the story to Teresa only knew that it wasn’t her), he was in the chapel, somehow having climbed up the altar and sitting at the foot of the gold-laid statue of Jesus on the cross. He was an active child, but it was a rare moment of calm for him; he had his little chubby arms reached up towards Jesus calling out “Papa, Papa.”

Rather than take him down, the Sister in charge took it as a sign, and knelt to pray before taking the news to Juanna and Guillermo. Sister Juanna of course told her she was being silly, but Guillermo had been just as hopeful. He made a prediction of Donello being destined for the priesthood himself. Whether that was to come true or not, no one could really say; the story was freshly months old by the time Teresa had arrived. And from what she’d seen of him growing up since, he was still hyperactive and had no real interest in religious lessons whatsoever. He would always rather be playing outside, kicking balls or play-fighting with his friends. So long as it never turned into anything really rough or malicious, Teresa had no problem with his running around.

The good news for bedtime was he was also always very hungry at night, despite eating more than most around him – she’d sneak him a cup of warm milk from the kitchens and he’d be out cold within the hour. Like every old nun he encountered, he called her Abuela, despite her only being in her early 40s when he was a child – but of course she didn’t mind. Sometimes when Donello would be brought to her needing bandages for a scrape or two, she'd take off her veil when no one was around and show him her newest grey hairs, as he was always fascinated by them. "Maybe my hair will get grey too!" he'd hoped happily.

Teresa would not live to see that happen...and sadly neither would Donello. Rather than stay and join the priesthood, he would be adopted by a family looking to start a farm right near Mexico City. When the revolution hit, contact was limited, and eventually stopped. It was believed that after the farm went under, Donello with his strength and stamina had joined up with the soldiers. Teresa could not say for sure, but right before the end she'd had a dream one night that he as a young man was standing on a hill, in dirty clothes with a gun in his hand, watching images of a future fade beyond the horizon. The dream had ended with a shot to his temple, and she'd woken up to her own scar burning, in tears. Whether it was a sign from God or a nightmare, no one heard from him again after 1914. 

* * *

 Ana and Ernesto’s first words she was lucky to have heard, if not having seen, firsthand. Ana as it turned out was just as fascinated with toys as Mari, but unlike her hermana mayor she took to possessing them fiercely. Her first word was literally “No!” one morning in protest to Sister Yemena dragging her away from them to church service. Even the unflappable Yemena was caught so much by surprise that she dropped her. At least Ana got her wish – she skipped mass and got to play with a doll while Teresa had spent the day bandaging up a pretty nasty head wound.

She did what she could for the girl, but it still left a scar. When Ana had cried over its appearance, Teresa lifted up her veil and showed her her own, hidden as a red patch on her temple beneath grey curls. She had thought this would make the girl feel better, to let her know that she wasn’t alone. Instead Ana had burst into tears again and asked rather frankly if it meant she was going to have a burnt-up blackish-red hand and a broken wonky nose too and frizzy grey hairs too.

Good sport Teresa had only laughed and told her “That only happens to you if you don’t share your toys.”

From then on, Ana was the most generous girl anyone could wish for, going alongside Mari every night to make sure every child had a stuffed animal to cuddle up with. Teresa couldn’t have been prouder of her turnaround, even if it wasn’t yet selfless. She hadn’t exactly taken this job for the betterment of her own ego either, but she appreciated honesty in all forms. And it was nice that the children weren’t afraid to look at or acknowledge her more interesting features, like many of the Sisters seemed to be.

And Ernesto had been slow to talk, but quick to demand attention – some nuns were concerned, but she didn’t consider it a problem since she could always figure out what he wanted. Usually food and hugs, and occasionally other children’s toys. He would pout when she’d tell him that no, he couldn’t have that rabbit that night, Ricardo or Fernanda had always claimed it, but he never threw tantrums and she was proud of him for that. Too many of the much older children had taken to pushing other smaller children around and stealing what they wanted – a sad product of the scavenging era the children of the church had had to go through, but Teresa wasn’t going to allow it any more, and she certainly was going to nip that behavior in the bud if she saw it in any of the younger children in her care.

But she was relieved she never had to. Ernesto may have been self-centered, but so were many children at his age, not for any malicious reasons. He certainly didn’t have the heart, much less the size, to bully anyone or steal things, and unlike the more stricter nuns she didn’t peg him unfairly from the beginning as a troublemaker. His first word came unsurprisingly as a result from trying to get more attention, this time while resting out on the courtyard with Sister Nina as she talked with Sister Ofelia over horchata.

Apparently, they’d both been so rapt in their conversation they hadn’t noticed the two-year old Ernesto attempting a rather precarious headstand. He’d thought that alone would get their attention, but it hadn’t, so at the top of his little lungs he’d cried out “LOOK!” He was almost just as surprised by the power of his own voice, and when the two nuns turned their heads sharply towards him, he had fallen over. Another head injury for Teresa to treat. But this time when Nina had brought him in and relayed the story to her, she had started laughing, which puzzled the younger sister.

“Oh, poor boy – I’m sorry, Sister Nina, I shouldn’t be laughing, but – I think I may have been at fault for his injury. I was reading to him the other day a story in one of my books; there was a man who’d been tired of being obscure and stood on his head until the whole world noticed him. Of course, he died doing so, and so instead the world noticed by putting flowers on his grave. It was pretty grim, and it was meant to be – I was trying to teach the boy that not every method for receiving attention is worth it.”

“But he still copied the story. He must not have listened, so why are you so happy?”

“Because he took his own lesson from it! Maybe not the one I wanted, but I’m just amazed at his age he realized he’s the sort of person who values his own autonomy. That’s a pretty smart thing to do. Now if you were even smarter, _nino_ -” she’d added, looking down at the boy “-you’d see that not every decision you make in desperation will be best for your health. Simply put – don’t hurt yourself unless it matters.”

Ernesto still might not have gotten the message, but she patched him up anyway. He was not always a troublemaker, but he was certainly going to do whatever he wanted – sometimes it went against what she felt was best, and would frustrate her, but she might as well be kind and patient and hoped it made an impact. After all, she hadn’t gotten her own scars from listening to her elders or playing things safe. But in that respect, she hoped he wouldn't follow in her footsteps. 

* * *

 And finally, her own little _nino_ , the boy in a shoebox with a hundred tiny freckles on his shoulders and a million ways to make her laugh. Héctor had also been late to start talking, but she knew it wasn’t due to ignorance or developmental struggles. Far from it. He watched everyone who spoke around him, and he seemed to be aware of more than most. She could see him react to what people were saying, or at least the way they said it - she even caught him trying to form words with his mouth, even when he never made a sound. He knew what words were. He knew on some level how to talk - he just wasn't doing so. 

Maybe, like the stories she'd heard about herself when she was young, he didn't want to do anything until he was able to do it exactly right. She tried to encourage him, nonetheless, to at least be willing to make mistakes. "Come on, _mijo_...you're so smart, my boy, I know you can do this!"

This was obviously when they were alone. Despite the rumors abound that she'd practically adopted him as her son already, she knew that she could never allow herself to call him that in public. It would alienate the other children, stop her from properly doing her job in caring for all of them equally - at least in theory. She never believed that would be the case. It already wasn't. But there were more reasons than for herself - she wasn't Héctor's mother. She'd made that call and had to stand by it. He was an orphan too, and someday he'd be adopted...to make him choose between one mama and the other, to make it harder for him to have a family and a life outside the church, when that was all a child should want...it would be too cruel. 

Still, for now, to her it wasn't an issue she wanted to think about. She allowed herself, maybe selfishly, the indulgence.

"Come on, Héctor, say it with me. Book. Dress. Feet. Keys." She'd sit him on the carpet of the nursery and lay items out for him, hoping one would strike his interest and he'd call out a name.

"Bot-tle. Rat-tle. Chair. Shoes. Nose. Rug. I'd put a bunny rabbit out for you, but that's too many syllables." 

He'd simply study all of them and give her a funny look by the end of it, like she was absolutely crazy. _Yes, these are things I see every day. I know their names. What's your point?_

"They're going to stay on my case if I don't teach you to say _something_ , Héctor. And maybe you'll like one of these more than the others? I've heard parents put out items for their babies to see what their future will be. Whatever they choose, that's what matters to them most in life. Could be fun, eh?"

He shook his head. He was still a baby, but she knew better than to assume she could talk over his head like everyone else. He picked up on the nonverbal as well and was an expert at it. But he had listened. When she sighed and hung her head, he crawled across the rug past all the trinkets and into her arms.

 _I'm choosing you_ , he seemed to say, and like anything sweet he did it brought her to tears and she wrapped her arms around him. "I love you, Héctor. You'll get sick of me telling you all the time one of these days, but I don't ever want you to forget it." she whispered into his hair.

She should have known he wouldn't. Héctor always listened.

It had finally happened one night in October, a month before he turned three. He was the last baby in the nursery and there hadn't been any foundlings since him; for reasons pertaining to cash flow, the church sisters wanted to remake the room into a stockroom for the supplies Teresa insisted on bringing in. Their own closets hadn't been enough.

"This'll be your last night in the nursery." she told him after reading him his nightly bedtime story, knowing he understood. "After this night, you'll be staying in the big room, with all the other boys and girls, in the big beds. That'll be a relief; you're already getting too old for bars on your bed."

He tugged at one the bars in response; it was true he'd never liked them, and he often fell asleep being rocked in her arms anyway, not lying in some prison crib with his head to the ceiling. She smiled at him. "Change is good, eh? You'll love it. Don't think the other children will be giving you a hard time, if that's worrying you. No one expects you to be talking at night. And soon you'll be going to Sunday mass and lessons, won't that be fun? Never too early to start leaning."

He yawned plainly in response, and she giggled. "Okay, I won't get too preachy on you. I'm only the messenger. Just don't grow up too fast on me, _nino_ , all right? Good night, Héctor. I love you."

As she headed to the door, ready to blow out the lights for bedtime, she heard a tiny clear little voice cry out loudly behind her, almost desperate. 

"Love you!" 

She turned around, stunned. It had been from Hector, undoubtedly, but why had he waited until this moment to say it? Did he think she was going away for good when he left the nursery? No matter what had caused it, though, she was thrilled.

"Hector, you spoke! Oh, _dios mio_ , this is wonderful! I'm so glad, so proud of you." She rushed back to the crib, lifting him up out of it and bouncing him around. "I told them all you'd be talking soon, I told them! Some of them said not until after Christmas, but I just knew...oh, I'm so happy for you! Héctor-"

She took him over to the shelves, littered with old baby supplies she hadn't needed to use in forever. "Héctor, can you say any of these? Bot-tle. Cloth. Blan-ket. You know what these are, right? Oh, maybe you can read! It wouldn't surprise me at all. Or maybe I'm getting ahead of myself..."

She hurried over to the book lying near the rocking chair. "Book. My book of stories for you. If we go through it, can you read any of them for me? There's lots of pretty illustrations there, too." He seemed to fight against this idea, however, pushing away from her and wanting to be put down. She let him down onto the carpet and kneeled beside him.

"What's wrong, Héctor? Am I going too fast? You don't have to know how to read yet, don't worry. I just got excited." She smiled at him widely. "I'm so proud of you Héctor. I bet you'll be talking up a storm now...but don't let me influence you that much."

"Love you." He reached his arms out to her - not wanting to be picked up again, but definitely wanting her close. She took his little hands in hers, still bouncing in place, still too excited to breathe.

"Yes, yes, wonderful! I guess I told it to you often enough you'd feed it back to me. Such a smart boy..."

He'd been parroting, of course. She was amazed that it had technically been a full sentence instead of one word, but maybe she shouldn't have been surprised. She managed to calm down some enough for her own hands to stop shaking, and she let his go. "Maybe tomorrow morning you can tell all the other sisters what you told me? They'll be so happy!"

He studied her, and eventually frowned, the tiny little eyebrows knitting together in a fashion entirely too grown-up for her taste. Something was going over her head, and she didn't like it.

"Héctor, don't give me that look. They've wanted to hear you talk for the longest time." she pleaded. 

He shook his head no. Not angrily, not defiantly, but just as a matter of fact. She was missing the point. Then it hit her - maybe he didn't want a fuss made. He was always wary of too much attention. Crowds sometimes scared him, too much noise definitely did. She backed off.

"Okay, I understand. You're not a performing monkey. Well, don't worry. You do things at your own pace. Nobody's rushing you." She reached out to him this time. "At least one hug before bed, _mijo_?"

At this, he warmed back up again immediately. "Love you." he repeated, and crawled into her arms as she wrapped him up in a hug. 

"I know, Héctor. You're a good boy. And love is wonderful, love is everything. You'll know that one day."

She felt him shake his head against her robe, again saying no, and loosened her grip. "What is it? What's wrong?" She ended up getting another happy surprise when he pointed a finger up at her and touched her nose.

"Love you." he insisted, and this time pulled her into as big a hug as he could manage himself. 

She finally understood; he hadn't been parroting at all. He'd listened, he'd learned, and now he was stating a fact. He wasn't saying "I love you" as a thing to say only because he'd heard it. He was saying he loved her because _he knew what it meant_. And he meant every word of it. 

Even though tears came easily to her, in tiny drops and splashes of emotion, they never usually got beyond a quiet sentimental appropriate level. But this time, she was the happiest she'd been in decades, perhaps her entire life, and she was bawling.

To the rest of the sisters, Héctor's first words (to them) would be marked down as something pretty unimportant, not worth talking about other than the fact it took him so long to say them. And it fell in line with most of their bets, since it didn't happen until late December. But Teresa knew the truth of the matter, even though she could never share it. And it would always be her favorite story. 


	3. Routines and Heavenly Politics

Routines were a lifeline to Teresa, and although change was the nature of every new conflict or arrival, she kept to a structure that worked best for her everyday health. Up before dawn to pray – not too far ahead of sunrise, just about fifteen minutes’ worth to get herself presentable. She’d work with Nina and Yemena to have the children up by sunrise, and it took about thirty minutes to get everyone ready and dressed, grumbling and whining on their way across the courtyard to mass. All the nuns were up by that point, as Father Guillermo presented his sermon.

Many of the older nuns were seasoned enough to stay awake without coffee. Teresa did her best to keep her eyes open but would black out at moments, and it helped to have someone nearby like Ofelia or Nina to focus on. Ofelia herself would be grumbling under her breath; she always resented the policy of mass before breakfast. Teresa barely kept track of Yemena but she knew that the ever-alert force of nature would have her third eye on the children, clearing her throat and occasionally poking at their sides to make sure they didn’t fall asleep. That wasn’t something Teresa agreed with at all, but as she rarely sat up front to avoid Sister Juanna’s judging glare, there was little she could do for them.

Instead, she let Ofelia rest against her side when the sermons went on too long, and when breakfast finally arrived, the two diverted from the rapid flow towards the main dining hall and instead went to the kitchen directly for their morning cups, drinking and gossiping fondly at a table in the courtyard that practically had marks in the shape of their elbows worn into it over the last decade.

The children’s lessons for the day were a whole other wing of the church outside of her control; she knew the basic structure of it, but rarely what was taught. Religious lessons, obviously, by Juanna, maths by Brother Marquel who also acted as Juanna’s put-upon financial record-keeper. Grammar and reading by Sister Sofia, who was tiny but formidable and rarely tolerated a comma out of place. History and the rich traditions of Mexican Culture by Sister Valeria, who Ofelia claimed had once been the local beauty of Santa Cecilia that broke every man’s heart by choosing God over a husband. Teresa didn’t see the appeal personally, but she could confirm the fact that Valeria floated instead of walking and it made not running into her in narrow darkened hallways that much more difficult.

And Sister Rodolpha, of all people, had been given the job of teaching the children essential life skills such as cooking and proper hygiene. Sister Rodolpha, who chain-smoked more than an army sergeant and was as difficult to approach as barbed wire. Teresa had suggested the class on essentials at the monthly church board meeting, sure, but it was completely out of her control who Juanna would pick for the post, and Juanna seemed to have tried putting Teresa in her place by selecting the least qualified person for the job. Nobody ended up happy out of the deal; most of the children hated the lessons, and Rodolpha herself hated to be saddled with more tedious work and put the blame all on Teresa’s head for even bringing the idea up. Only Sister Ofelia seemed to see any real good in her – but Teresa liked that. Better to have friends that were better than you, as an example to look up to.

After breakfast, the children were shuffled along from lesson to lesson while Teresa used her time to assist in other areas of the church where she could, working from the comfort of her room whenever it was possible. She helped Sister Aliza file library books, cleaned the basilica and other wings of the church along with Sisters Marcella and Estela, checked the amount of supplies daily and wrote up lists for Sister Beatriz (and would often be tasked with going into town and buying most of them herself, but was often able to meet up with the proselytizing Sisters Cosima and Una there who were thrilled to help), and double-checking records and financial statements brought to her by Brother Marquel.

This was never given directly, only passed along by other passing nuns in a chain-linked open secret. He knew that Sister Juanna would not take kindly to Teresa's interference, and more than that didn't want to lose his own job for not doing things as efficiently as she wanted them done. Office politics were not kind in any field, even heavenly ones. But Teresa had managed her parents’ finances in their darkest times – this was easy, if incredibly boring. And if she did manage to get all that work done somehow, she left herself time to read from the Bible or one of her favorite old storybooks – there usually wasn’t a difference.

Afternoons were more of the same, with her work being confined to sorting through papers in her room while Sisters Nina and Yemena watched the children at play outside. Yemena with the strength of a bull was good at breaking up playground fights when she needed to, and Nina was always drying tears and taking the injured or sick back to Teresa for care. Isidro like a gnat used to tag along every time to take notes on Teresa’s methods and ask questions, before his departure, and he seemed self-assured enough in what he was doing that no one ever stopped him. After his era, no one really followed in his footsteps, but Teresa preferred it that way – she wasn’t a teacher, just an old woman with some bandages and towels. Most of the small injuries brought to her to treat weren’t anything to get upset about, and her small patients rarely cried. They’d often get right back out to playing when she was done.

By sundown and dinnertime, everyone was running low on energy, save for the few children who tried throwing food at each other across the dining hall under the sisters’ noses. The biggest challenge of the entire day was putting the children to bed – it made getting them awake look tame in comparison. All of them needed to have washed and used facilities, brushed their teeth and had a glass of water, dressed down in pajamas either on their own or with help, gotten a toy and had their hair brushed before bed. Teresa set up the routine, and not only helped the children herself but supervised Nina and Yemena in their work.

Nina rarely needed anything beyond encouragement – she was a natural mothering type, and Teresa was lucky to have her. They’d grown close over the years, enough for Teresa to open up more about some of her family. Nina freely did the same – she’d come from a large family with many children, but the desire to have her own or to find someone special to settle down with had never come. It wasn’t something she felt she was missing out on; if anything it made life far less complicated for her. But she looked up to the older Teresa as something of a mother figure – maybe more like an older sister, considering how giggly and foolish they could be around each other sometimes.

Take the hair brushing, for example. Teresa had enacted it as a way to prevent against infections and lice, which she'd seen plenty of in Oaxaca during the troubled times. Most of the orphans only barely tolerated it, frowning and trying their best to ignore the nuns. Those that had hated it initially put up a fuss until Teresa found better ways to approach them. Ernesto had been a tough case, never sitting still and refusing to let anyone touch him. Nina had been at a loss for how to solve it, but Teresa figured a solution out right away. Taking out two of her own combs and lifting her veil, she'd shown him step by step how to do it on his own.

"Maybe your hair isn't as long as mine is, or as grey. But it's just as important for you to keep clean." she'd lectured him. "If we don't wash or comb our hair well enough, we can get sick. So you must do exactly what I do, if you're going to do this on your own." She smiled as he nodded silently. "Good. I know you can do it, you're so grown-up you barely need me anymore." she chuckled.

This had gone over well, except for some days when she noticed he was combing it meticulously during the day out of some nervous habit. Out of the frying pan, into the fire. She had no idea how to make progress on that one yet, but she tried not to let it worry her.

But one adorable thing she and Nina had found out about Héctor as soon as he graduated to the main sleeping area, was that he loved having his hair brushed. He'd lean into their arms the same way he would as a baby, and he'd be so happy and at peace that sometimes, he'd even fall asleep before they were done, falling forward with the brush still caught in his thick hair. Nina and Teresa would share a look and a few stifled laughs between each other, and pull the brush out before quietly tucking him into bed. Most rarely heard Teresa laugh, but it was unavoidable when Hector was involved. 

This had gone sour one day, however, when Teresa had let Yemena take over the work on a day Nina was sick. Despite initial back-of-the-mind worries about Yemena's capacity for warmth as well as keeping order, things had gone pretty uneventfully until Héctor fell asleep. Teresa had been passing by, helping Ana find her lost toy, and when she saw Héctor's head nod and dip as usual, Yemena's eyes had rolled and she had jabbed a finger impatiently into his side.

Instantly, Teresa's hand went flying - she had barely time to think, but thankfully the reaction wasn't violent. The sight of the charred, damaged hand gripping Yemena's shoulder was enough to spook her more than anything, and the usually stone-faced grimace she fronted fell away to shock. Teresa was more than a little surprised at herself too - but she had to follow through.

"Yemena - don't **ever** touch that boy again. Understand?" she warned in a low tone, trying to take a page from the woman who hated her most and make her voice steel. "In fact, you should probably go to bed. I'll handle things from here." 

Maybe it worked a little too well. Yemena scrambled to her feet and quickly walked away to the other side of the room, slamming the door behind her as she rushed out. Teresa sighed, and prayed that she wouldn't have this small outburst come back to haunt her. But that usually wasn't how Fate worked. Even God couldn't stop it from reacting in kind to what it saw. She hoped it would just mean getting a hangnail or a paper cut, and not harm done to anyone else around her. 

Héctor hadn't woken up, remarkably, and she quickly checked on him for any damage. A bruise on his side, but he didn't seem to be in any pain asleep. He bruised easily anyway, poor thing. She held him and rocked him back and forth, careful not to wake him up again. " _Dios mio_ , you're a tough little guy. That was my fault, it won't happen again." she whispered into his hair, even though she knew he couldn't hear. 

Nighttime routines were rarely so eventful. Some children were just more complex cases than others; they were people after all. 

* * *

The hunger strike was the most politically charged Teresa was willing to get during her time at the church, and it had happened almost entirely by accident. For years Teresa had been working with the sisters, within the confines of the slow reform of church policy meeting by meeting, to phase out physical punishment and any so-called "standard disciplinary measures" for children during school lessons. Teresa was frustrated with how long it was taking Sister Juanna and her direct underlings to see that these so-called standards were unnecessary and malicious.

Sister Ofelia was in her corner, as always, but still remained skeptical things would ever turn around. During a rare moment to themselves before the start of the first meeting of 1904, Ofelia puffed on her cigar and gave it to Teresa straight: "The reason Juanna's holding fast more than anyone else isn't because of tradition. It's not about the children. It's about her authority  - she won't bend to anyone, especially you."

Teresa, leaning against the wall, rubbing her stinging scar underneath her habit. "I'll never understand why she hates me so much. I've never treated her like an enemy. I always had hope we could find common ground, that we could compromise. But I've had to fight every step of the way, even on smaller issues."

Ofelia stamped the dying bud out against the stone wall. "That's it exactly. If she can't control you, if you've got a single opinion of your own, you're a threat to her. Black and white. That's how she's always been." She chuckled. "If she wasn't a Sister, she'd make a fantastic crime boss. Imagine her with a gun, eh?"

Teresa for once didn't lighten up with the humor. "You're telling me. I was safer in the riots." she moaned, only half-kidding. 

"Hey, most of the Sisters here feel the same way you do - you're not alone.  And maybe some of them will be brave enough to stand with you this time, with this new thing you've written up. You've always got my vote, you know, me and my five girls."

"I'm grateful for that. But if the majority's still silent..." She shook her head. "I have to stop it this year, Ofelia. I have to. I'm sick to my stomach of seeing bruises and blisters on these poor children every day after school. Of feeling helpless as they try not to cry. Some are even getting to be scared of _me_. And..." 

Her hand was shaking violently again with this unspoken thought, and Ofelia knew better than to stop it, letting her continue.

"...and I'm scared for my boy. It'll be a couple more years yet before he's ready for lessons, but I'm still terrified. If she hurts him...I don't know what I'd do to her. I really don't. Maybe something God himself couldn't forgive me for." She turned away. "I know I'm selfish for saying it, Ofelia. But it's true."

Ofelia, after a brief moment to take this all in, simply patted her on the back. "Well, that won't happen. If she does, I'll beat you to the punch."

Teresa managed a grateful smile. Adjusting the booklet of notes in her hand, she straightened up to her full six and a half feet and knocked on the wooden door - three times for luck. "Well...God be with us." she said, and crossed herself quickly before entering.

The meeting both went better than expected and as bad as they'd feared. Teresa's new motion she put forward for punishment was as severe as the crime - anyone on any level of the church caught abusing a child, would be met with immediate expulsion. Of course she'd prepared an argument for Juanna's rebuttal; what constituted the nature of 'abuse' exactly?

"Hitting a child. Humiliating a child. Belittling them in any way in front of others. Encouraging other children to target them. This may be my fault for assuming that everyone in this room knew this as fact. But these things are wrong." she stated levelly. 

Once again, Juanna would argue that there was a distinct difference between malicious abuse and healthy discipline, and once again Teresa would provide peaceful alternatives to every scenario she posed. They were the only ones talking. The rest waited on bated breath, eyes darting back and forth across the long table. Finally, after an hour's worth of discussions, the motion was put to a vote. 

Nine for. Ofelia of course had seconded the motion. Then Nina, Aliza, and Beatriz had been the first to raise their support. Next was the elderly, sweet Estela, shaking and smiling as she rose, helped by Marcella who glared at the woman next to her. Sister Emilia was refusing to meet her eye, as she remained planted. As Sister Juanna's undersecretary and believed successor, she would be risking more than most.

So too remained Brother Marquel, shaking in his chair from nerves. Of the teachers working under Juanna, only the proud Valeria dared to rise. And Sister Fiorella had been absent due to a sickness that had caught fast among the children, but her vote was made guaranteed in writing, as Sister Yemena silently produced. She passed it along to Ofelia through a chain of hands, without rising herself. 

But nine remained against. Sofia, Marquel, Emilia, Rodolpha...all were in Juanna's graces and could be made into nothing in an instant. Yemena had no desire to get involved in much of anything at the meetings herself. And Teresa was heartbroken to see Cosima and Una, the nuns of charity outside the church, hesitate before eventually sitting back down. And three more, to the immediate right and left of Juanna, also feared too much for themselves to say anything.

More than ever, Teresa wished that Father Guillermo would come to at least one of these meetings. He may have been spiritual head of the church, but he kept himself so cloistered away and caught up in his own spirituality that he rarely interacted with the living world. Only on morning mass and special holidays did they ever really see him. And here he would have been needed. A tie vote was the same as a rejection. Teresa would have to plan again. 

With this storm brewing and negative doubt inside her, it was no surprise that the sickness that had passed among the children and kept Fiorella bedridden soon hit Teresa herself. Fevers and migraines faded in and out throughout the day, dizziness when she stood, and dry mouth and nausea plagued her constantly. Even water made her vomit some days. And the older she got, the longer and harsher these kind of illnesses would play out. She could avoid plagues in her younger days, but maybe the lack of exposure was getting to her, if now a cold or flu felt strong enough to destroy her. 

Due to the seriousness of the disease, the former nursery turned stockroom was cleared out once again after only a few months, and turned into a small quarantine for sick children. It had come and gone among them quickly, and was now left unused. Teresa knew she had to stay on her feet, couldn't afford to be idle or else the long absence would be used against her by Juanna, and so as the only one who could enter the room, she spent her days renovating it. Old curtains, blankets and pillows on cots that still carried traced of the illness were taken out, burned, and replaced. Teresa took up the tools herself one day and spent the entire afternoon building a shelf underneath the window, on which she put fresh flowerpots and herbs for tea. Despite all the hard work, Teresa felt it was actually doing her health some good. Being able to work on a project herself and see it through - without dissention, intimidation, or any sort of bureaucratic nonsense - was definitely refreshing. It was turning out to be a decent little space, and she hoped she'd find some use for it again someday. 

But due to all the handiwork, and the conditions of her illness, she hadn't been present in the church environment or at meals. Even when she finally rejoined the nuns at their table, the disease at large finally gone, she still politely refused food. Even though she would take water now, and herbs in her tea when she could harvest them from the former sickroom, food was still hard on her system. As the first couple days turned into five, the sisters were beginning to talk. Maybe this was something more than just illness. Maybe it was a statement. Maybe the disease had been a ruse, and she had been taking the time off to plan her next move.

Soon, some of the others had begun taking food to their rooms, leaving large empty spaces at the sisters' table in the dining hall. This was puzzling to Teresa, who still always appeared at the table on principle when she could. Ofelia was the one to break the news to her.

"They're seeing you as the martyr of this new revolution. They're refusing to sit at the same table as Juanna. Many are even refusing to eat. They're following your example."

"I'm not setting any example! This isn't what I wanted!" Teresa objected, coughing as her voice strained. "I'm just getting over being ill. I'm younger than they are, and I'm still struggling. If they start starving themselves, it'll kill them!"

"Well, we all have to go sometime."

"You _can't_ be serious."

"Hey, it's getting Juanna's attention. She's actually starting to sweat." 

Although Teresa was certainly concerned, this made her think twice. More of the nuns who had supported Juanna, or at least refused to get against her, were now starting to waver in the wake of this mass protest. Teresa sat through one tenuous meal where Sofia became the first to defect, pushing away a plate of food while looking straight at Juanna. Juanna herself glared daggers into Teresa, but said nothing.

"I can't control what they do, but I still can't eat yet, either." Teresa shook her head as she reported back to Ofelia, who against her wishes had joined the crowd and sat smoking in her room. "Now it's become about more than just my health. Juanna thinks I'm leading this movement, and if I tell her I'm not, I'll lose every bit of progress I've made. I don't know what to do." 

"Juanna's calling an emergency meeting in three days. We'll push for another vote then. I'm not trying to get your hopes up, but you may have a chance this time. Just stay strong."

"But this isn't right. It's my fault, I should have-"

"Stop it." Ofelia cut her off. "We all decided to do this. We've been looking for the right opportunity to put that old bat in her place for years. Don't put the weight of the world on yourself. Just focus on your goal. Three days. Hold on until then. Don't get worked up or you're done for." 

Teresa sighed resignedly. "The sooner we can get this resolved, the better. I just don't want this foolishness to spread out to the children."

She herself was faltering. It wasn't so much a desire to eat again driving her as it was the stomach pains she was starting to have without any food outweighing the nausea she'd felt previously. Even though she still arrived to dinner, she excused herself more and more often now without returning, retreating into the courtyard usually to deal with the pain in peace. She couldn't eat before the next meeting, not as long as Sister Juanna still sat at the table - otherwise, she'd use it against her. 

The thought occurred to her on one of these painful evenings. Maybe Juanna knew that she wasn't behind this, but made her think so. Maybe she wanted her to starve on purpose. One less vote against her. It didn't matter that she would be killing off the rest of the church family in the process. She had to prove Teresa wrong, at any cost-

No, no, that was just the pain talking. That would be too cruel, even for her. Juanna had lived with these sisters for years before Teresa even arrived. Maybe she had a pretty damaged way of showing love, but she loved them in some way. They were her family. That's why the pressure was getting to her. Maybe it was also why she hated Teresa so much. She came in, some grotesque stranger, and put the life and the family she knew at risk with her obstinate changes. Maybe it wasn't about power or authority at all, at least not totally. Maybe Ofelia was wrong-

Her racing thoughts were interrupted by a tiny scuffle of shoes behind her on the rocks. Turning her head around, she saw Ernesto standing behind her, watching her doubled-over on the grass. She rose as best she could, mortified.

"Ernesto? You should be at dinner. Is anything wrong?" She couldn't get herself up to her full height, but did her best to lean against a nearby boulder and smile. "You shouldn't be out here, little one." 

She remembered weeks ago treating a pretty fresh bruise on Ernesto's wrist, from some question he'd raised in Juanna's class about the Bible. He gave very few details to her about the story, but it was something about Cain and Abel and asking what Abel did to make Cain so angry. Teresa couldn't answer that, but she at least supported the idea that it was a very interesting point of view. She also couldn't tell him why God couldn't take him away from the orphanage when he asked her that, but her heart went out to him. 

Now, he stared at her with the same nervous reservation he gave all the nuns since the incident. She tried talking to him again. "Why don't you go back to dinner? There's quesadillas tonight. Cheese. Your favorite, right?"

He nodded once, eyes still on her. He was holding a tiny rabbit toy from the bedroom. It had always been his favorite. He carried it around more often now, and after the incident with Juanna that had pretty obviously scarred him, Teresa let him keep it as some small comfort. 

"Why're you out here?" he asked simply.

"Oh, the weather, very nice this night...also, I'm not feeling well. You remember when you got sick a little while ago? Well, I did too. And I'm old, so I get really, really sick sometimes. But I'll be all right. Fresh air helps." She did her best to push herself off the rock, kneeling down in the grass and feeling the blades with her fingers, trying to be as relaxed as ever. "Nature is the best medicine sometimes, you know." 

"Did I get you sick?"

Another pang in her heart. "Oh, no, sweetheart, of course not. It's been happening to everyone, it's all right."

Reaching into his pocket with the hand not tightened around the rabbit's throat, Ernesto dug something out of his pocket. He held it out to her. It was small, and the same color as his fingers so she couldn't see it well.

"What is it, Ernesto?"

"Take it. But you only get half." he insisted. Opening the fingers on his clenched hand carefully, Teresa saw that it was two broken halves of a cookie. They hadn't been serving it at dinner. Beatriz must have left them in the kitchen somewhere.

"Where did you get this?" she asked anyway, hoping he'd be honest.

"Kitchen. On the counter. Nobody was eating it." Ernesto admitted. He pulled his hand away. "But I'm going to, so you only get half."

It was puzzling, but maybe this was his way of testing her. Teresa needed food, but she wasn't going to take any from a hungry child. "Are you sure? It looks pretty tasty. Sure you don't want all of it yourself?" she asked him. 

Ernesto hesitated, on cue. "Well...maybe...but-"

"It's okay, Ernesto. You can eat the cookie, and I'll walk you back to the kitchen for some quesadillas. I'll have Beatriz make them special for you. And I won't tell her you had dessert before your dinner." She winked and smiled. "Just this once. All right?"

Ernesto looked at her, and the broken halves of the cookie in his palm. As Teresa sat up on the rock, breathing heavily as the pains in her stomach flared up again with movement, Ernesto lifted the pieces closer to his mouth, but still hesitated. Finally, he made a choice, and held them out to her.

"You can have both. I'm gonna have cheese quesadillas anyway."

"Ernesto, you need food more than I do." she reasoned with him.

"No, I don't. You're sick. When I was sick before you gave me food, and made me better. So...so we're even now." he argued with her. Defiantly he dumped the pieces and crumbs onto her lap, not giving her a choice in the matter.

She smiled. "You're lucky this isn't my best robe." she kidded him. 

He was still serious. "Eat it and we'll get quesadillas together. You're one of the good ones. So take it." he said.

Teresa was stunned. When Ernesto made a decision on his own, he stood by it, and he'd decided she was worthy of his trust. He sat down in the grass as she took small, bird-like bites of the little cookie. It didn't have much flavor, but she was happier than if she'd had an entire feast.

"That was very kind of you, Ernesto. You're a good boy."

"I know." He smiled, and Teresa had to laugh. He barely needed her for anything anymore, even praise. Taking his hand, she stood up, bent over still to match his arm's length as he led her along towards the kitchens. 

In that moment - not in the days later, not in the victory of the motion finally passed and the fighting over. Not in the knowledge that no child would ever have to go through that suffering again, and Ernesto would be the last, although that was welcome too.

But in that moment - Teresa was finally sure she was doing the right thing. With her tiny, unusual, somewhat tiring and unstable life, she was still doing God's work, and helping to make a young boy a better man. 


	4. A Dog's Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hector grows up fast. Ernesto wants a puppy. Teresa has a lot to manage.

Although Héctor would forever remain the 'baby' of Santa Cecilia - no infants came to the doorstep after him - he was still growing up so fast. Teresa both loved and hated the fact, but responded to it well; she walked a fine line between babying him whenever she could and always giving him the opportunity to learn new things and even help her out where he could.

Take the garden, for instance. After seeing how much money could be saved on food if she didn’t have to head to the market for common produce every week, Teresa passed a motion up the chain of nuns in administration to start a church garden, which she and the cooks could tend to personally. Whether it was passed through the right sources or Sister Juanna was just having too much on her plate to be bothered with fighting another of Teresa’s proposals, the plan went through. Now there was the issue of gardening itself. Teresa had had very limited experience – she didn’t grow up on a farm or have much soil to tend in a wealthy home in Oaxaca. But her smaller plants in the unused former sickroom were doing well, and she had enough books on the subject to give her a frame of reference.

As the only ‘baby’ still left in her constant care at 4 years old, Héctor could often be seen in the small makeshift garden with her, carrying a shovel almost bigger than his arm and marching along from plant to plant in his little workboots. Teresa found that even at his age he had a much better instinct than she did when it came to them; he’d go over the soil packed around the stems three or four times, and stop Teresa gently when it looked like she was giving them too much water. He loved seeing them grow day by day from tiny seeds to fully grown with beans and fruits and vegetables, and he especially loved the ones that grew far over his head, saying it made him feel like an explorer lost in the Amazon jungle.

He often went out to the markets with Teresa to buy more, either clinging onto her dress as he walked beside her or being held in her arms when the streets got a little too packed. He was still pretty small, but it was getting harder for him to hold than before, as Teresa had to mostly use her weaker arm while her good one did most of the shopping. And the cobblestones streets in the official market could be hard on them both; Héctor would trip on loose stones if he tried to walk on the uneven surface, and Teresa found them hard going due to a stiffening right leg that worsened with age and wouldn’t let up.

But despite that, these trips brought nothing but joy. Both of them loved seeing the stalls full of home-grown delicacies and samples from fledgling businesses, even if Teresa bought very little, and the local artists’ vibrant colors and style always amazed people. Local and traveling musicians would always take advantage of the heavy crowd opportunities and play within sight of the stalls, and the mariachis always drew crowds of their own. Héctor seemed to fall in love the first time he heard a guitar, staring in awe at the bearded old man who played for his supper while the rest of the crowd passed by and ignored him. He was nervous around crowds, but he seemed to want to risk it to get closer to the music.

Teresa usually encouraged him, dancing around with him in her arms as he laughed and laughed – but she hated him wandering off without her. One time, Teresa had realized in horror while shopping that he was gone, and looked for him throughout the entire market only to find out he’d been sitting at the feet of an old lady singing on her porch that they’d passed on the way there. “Apologies, _sénora_.” Teresa told her as she scooped Héctor back up into her arms.

“ _Sin preocupaciones, santa hermana._ It must be in his blood.”

The thought had prodded at Teresa’s brain since. She hadn’t bothered to really think of where Héctor had come from before, but maybe the old woman was right in a way. Perhaps his father had been one of these traveling musicians, some scoundrel who’d charmed a young Catholic virgin and run away in the night afterwards, leaving her pregnant and afraid enough to abandon the child shortly after it was born. She didn’t look on complete scorn with the musicians after that – after all, she had no proof that any of them were to blame – but there was certainly trepidation.

The music shop was always a problem, for instance; Héctor was never the type of child to whine or beg, but he would always linger a little too long, staring in the windows. “Héctor, come on!” Teresa would eventually shout, once she realized he was no longer behind her. “Most nuns have eyes in the back of their heads to stop trouble, but I don’t! Stay with me now.”

Almost in the blink of an eye, Héctor had grown yet again, and now occupied the room Teresa had re-made that was formerly his own to begin with. Sister Juanna had insisted on it after realizing that he was often ill more than most children, worrying each time he had something contagious. Teresa was more confident that it was some sort of predisposition to sickness, something she’d seen passed down from parents to children, and was often prevalent in rural places where everyone on some level was related. But she’d been the one to suggest the set-aside former sickroom, and for once Juanna didn’t object.

It was much nicer now. She brought in even more plants for him, once she learned his favorites, and even though he was in and out throughout the year, he always remained positive and bounced back. And he still loved hearing her read stories to him.

He started school with the other children soon after his fifth birthday, rushed ahead a year earlier than most due to being the only one left. He’d gone into the first year eager, thinking most of his classes would be an extension of his playtime, but was soon left disappointed. The seriousness of many of his teachers put him off lessons completely; unless they phrased things in the form of an interesting story or some interactive question, he wasn’t that invested. Most of the time, he would be found staring out the window when there was one to be had, and always humming songs to himself under his breath, waiting until the childrens’ weekend day trips into Santa Cecilia to hear them again firsthand.

He relished the afternoons and being outside, but it was less to do with playing with other children and more with helping tend the garden, which he would volunteer for at any spare opportunity. Most of the children weren’t bad, but there were definitely people to watch out for. If some of the older, scrappier boys got a hold of him, he’d take advantage of the visits to Teresa to get patched up as an opportunity to talk with the one person that understood him best, to cope with the abuse. Teresa herself did her best to listen and advise, and was more grateful each time for Yemena’s watchful eye on the playground breaking fights up before they got truly awful. She’d have gone out there and fought them off herself, if she didn’t have a duty of care – plus it would have painted an even bigger target on his back.

But it was here where the question of his parents, inevitably, had come up. Some of the children had asked her questions over the years, those who had never known their parents, and Teresa usually had a roundabout but honest answer for them all. She tried not to dwell on the subject much, especially for those whose parents had truly been terrible people. But with Héctor, like all things, it was different for her emotionally. And funnily enough, it had started with him asking her a question about herself.

“Teresa, did you lose your tooth?”

She’d been busy putting a bandage over his leg while they were sitting on the rug, in a rare very serious altercation that had left it bloody and stiff, and looked up from her work at the odd question. “Hm?”

“There’s a black space in your teeth. Did someone knock yours out, too?”

Teresa consciously ran her tongue over the gap in her teeth behind closed lips. This was thankfully one physical feature that she didn’t have to make up a story for to avoid tragedy, or at least minimize details. But the ‘too’ he’d added had concerned her.

“Hector, you told me that tooth fell out on its own.” she said sternly, waiting for him to cop to it. Unlike the other children, it didn’t ever take much pressure for him to admit it.

He hesitated before, as always, giving in. “Well…that was a lie. I’m sorry. But it was loose already!”

Teresa rolled her eyes and sighed, knowing that as usual, he’d never name names. “I wish you’d tell me these things sooner, and more honestly. I **am** a nurse, you know.” She gestured to the bandaged leg in front of her. Héctor nodded, getting that guilty little look on his face that tugged at Teresa’s heart.

Well, he’d done no real harm, and it was too late to be mad about anyway. She decided to get back to his question. “My tooth, you were asking me? No, it didn’t get knocked out. It grew in that way.” She opened her mouth quickly to show the gap. “Sometimes, people’s teeth grow in with a gap. It’s the same for every woman in my father’s family. Somehow we inherit it.”

“Inherit? What’s that?”

“Inheriting’s when a person gets things that are similar to other members of their family. A mother’s laugh, a father’s dimples, a grandmother’s heart condition, etcetera. You’ve heard of the phrase ‘it’s in your blood’, right? Well, that’s what it means. Passed down through family.”

She finished tying off the bandage and helped him up as he tried to put weight on it. “Good, see? Not even a fracture. You’ll be better in no time.” She helped him to a rocking chair in the corner. “So to answer your question in full; I got my hair from my father, my eyes from my mother, probably a few freckles on my arms from my Tià Selena, and my nose, before it broke, from Papà Lorenzo. It was always pretty wonky.” She chuckled, and added. “We’re all a hodge-podge of inherited traits, plus plenty of our own that we get as we grow.” She kneeled down next to him, as always trying to meet eye level when talking with him. “That make any sense, nino?”

“Si. But…what did I inherit? I don’t know any of my family.”

Teresa probably should have guessed this was where the conversation would go. She thought she’d prepared for it enough, but it was never easy. She tried, at least, to set an example and be honest.

“Well, Héctor, the trouble is none of us really **do** know that. Many of the children are brought here by their parents when they’re older. But you were a baby, and in your case…well, we never saw who they were. What kind of people they were like. If there were even two of them involved. So, it’s hard to say.”

“Si, I know. Sister Sofia told me.” Héctor kicked his good leg idly. “She said it was rainy and cold and no one thought I’d live.”

“But everyone was so happy you did. You came out of the rain and brought us sunshine, _mijo_.”

He smiled, but hesitated again before continuing his next thought. “They didn’t want me, did they? Whoever left me here.”

Teresa sighed. “That I can’t answer either. It’s easy to write people off as wholly good or bad from the decisions they make, especially when they make mistakes. I certainly can’t understand why they would leave you. It’s not a decision I would have made. But our faith teaches us that despite our differences or disagreements, no person is above sin or beyond salvation. In other words, we need forgiveness.”

She smoothed some of his hair back, out of his eyes. “Your parents may have been lost and confused and made a hard choice when they knew they couldn’t care for you. Or maybe they weren’t like that at all. Maybe they were selfish and you thankfully didn’t inherit that part of them at all. We can’t ever tell. But you shouldn’t ever let them define you; it has nothing to do with who you are right now.”

Héctor shrugged. “But I don’t know who I am now. I mean, I do know. I’m Héctor. I hit my leg, not my head.” he joked, making her snort. “But how can I know more, if you said we’re whatever our family is?”

“I said that we’re also what we make of ourselves, who we choose to be despite where we come from. And you’ll have plenty of time to figure that out.” Teresa stood up, heading over to the window to grab the cup of fresh water she was saving for later. “We all have a calling that gives us a greater purpose. You’ll find yours.” Teresa checked it for dust, swirled it around, and brought it back over to him. “I know whatever it is, you’ll be great at it.”

“Thanks.” He drank slowly, and held the handmade clay cup in his dirt-covered hands. “But I still wish I knew what they were like.”

Teresa smiled down at him. “Well…whoever your papà was, he must have been _muy guapo_.” She ruffled his hair, a very un-nun trait that always made him laugh out loud. He playfully swatted her hand away as she giggled too. “Or your mama, who can say?” she added. “But one of them at least must have been covered in freckles. That isn’t just something you catch like a cold.”

“Yeah, I know. They won’t even wash off.” Héctor complained.

“Wash off? Silly boy, they’re wonderful. You should be adding on more! I’ll get some mud and some ink from my desk and we can start right now.”

Teresa feigned dashing over to the other side of the room as Héctor laughed. They had spent the rest of the afternoon lying on the rug and drawing pictures instead, and Héctor colored in a picture of a farm with the sky bright red and a cow that was orange with green spots. Teresa loved inventive childish things like that, it took her away from all her worries and allowed her mind to open up once again. To think outside the box, and outside the narrow confines of the church walls. Sometimes, the sky could just be red.

* * *

 

The week before Héctor’s eighth birthday had been an eventful one. Dia de Muertos was always a big to-do for the church, as the only cemetery in town was the one they sponsored. Every child was given a candle to place on the church _ofrenda_ for the deceased sisters of the church, and another to bring with them to lay on a grave in the cemetery. Although many of the children had learned something of Dia de Muertos’s history and traditions in Sister Valeria’s class, Héctor retained very little of it in his mind. All he knew of Dia de Muertos then was of the look and feel of it; candles and food laid out for the dead which you couldn’t touch, a comforting chill in the night air, and families gathered together. More and more children his age were getting adopted out of the church, but his time hadn’t yet come. He stared wistfully at the parents and children praying and playing together and holding each other close.

Teresa felt pangs in her heart around this time, too. Although the Costas certainly had their flaws as a family (some more than others – her memories of old grumps like Tia Giora hadn’t grown so nostalgic with time), they cared deeply for their kin and had supported Teresa over the decades. Now, there was probably a whole new generation of Costas who knew her only from a distance. The idea was strange to her. Like many families, despite frictions they had always been close, and even with her husband’s name she always thought of herself as a Costa first. She had been the first Costa to ever really leave Oaxaca, in her twenties, and she’d come back to them damaged and strange. But they hadn’t turned her away, she was still family. And when she’d left again, presumably for good, they gave her their support of the small church she’d settled down in and sent her letters every half-year to update her on the family.

It may have been selfish, since many of her fellow nuns barely had family to write home to, or any that could read their letters or even remembered who they were. But she still missed the Costas, and she felt some sorrow as she looked over the descriptions of her primos’ children, knowing she would never get to see them. She spent Dia de Muertos keeping up the appearance of the church ofrenda in the evening, and using it as an opportunity to have a vulnerable moment to herself while the rest were away.

After that emotional bombshell, the next day was taxing on her physically. Sister Yemena, of all people, was out sick, something Teresa had thought impossible. This meant that instead of being able to work in her room all afternoon, she’d need to take Yemena’s place monitoring children outside. Luckily Ofelia had volunteered her time to be alongside her, and while the hours didn’t entirely roll by, the two could enjoy snippets of conversation in between activity.

Teresa never enjoyed putting her foot down, but in some cases it was more than necessary. Bullies, for instance, she could never stand and would not tolerate on principle. She’d had to break up one fight that day, between two older boys, and although Ofelia did most of the legwork on pushing them apart, she was the one who’d spotted the makeshift knives on the ground, and was horrified.

“What in God’s name are you doing with these?!” She held them up, angry and terrified, allowing her voice to rise in a rare moment of fury. “Do you know how many people you could have hurt with these, not just your own stupid selves? _Idiotas_! Fighting is one thing, but these would surely kill someone.”

The boys remained silent, at least one visibly from fear. The other was hard to read. “Where did you get these things? I want to know right now!” she pressed again. Ofelia approached her on the left, carefully silent, and Teresa handed the evidence off to her.

Finally, the stone-faced boy spoke up. “Papa said we needed them – in case the soldiers come. They don’t care who they hurt. It’ll be every man for himself.”

Teresa shook her head. “Don’t lecture me on war, boy. Tell me, is **he** a soldier?” She pointed towards his frightened counterpart, who flinched. “Is he?”

“N-no-”

“And does every man for himself involve poking an innocent boy full of holes?”

“He-”

“I don’t care what he did to you. It wasn’t bad enough for things to get this deadly. And you,” she started, swiveling around towards the meeker boy. “you could have done just as bad, if not worse.”

“How a-a-am I worse?”

“Your grip is shaky. You could have hurt yourself without thinking. Have you? Let me see your hands.”

Without waiting for an answer, she marched over to him and grabbed his right hand. Blood stained the sides of his palm and knuckles. “Just as I thought. You’re going to my office right now. No excuses. And if I catch anyone with these again-” she shouted to the crowd that had gathered around the scene, making her voice as severe and serious as the situation called for. “I will be hauling you over to Sister Juanna’s office myself. And what goes on behind those doors, I have no control over. Do you understand?”

The crowd murmured, and soon dispersed as Teresa marched the shaking boy down the pathway to her office. Ofelia, bloody knives still held carefully in her leathered hands, followed to her side. “Dios, I don’t want to go through that again for a long time. Nicely handled.” she complimented her.

Teresa was still steaming over the situation at large. “I will be reporting this to Sister Juanna regardless. She’ll probably hold me responsible. Just when I think I’m no longer on shaky ground…and Dios, maybe I deserve to be sent away, if the children managed to get knives into this place under my watch…”

“You’re not the guarddog of the church. If she tries to scapegoat you, I’ll let her know we’re all to blame. In fact, don’t even worry about it. Just focus on getting the little pea-brain patched up.”

She didn’t need to tell her twice. Soon Teresa was yards ahead of her, charging like a bull towards the children’s ward pulling the boy along. Ofelia stopped at the edge of the courtyard to catch her breath. She’d go to Juanna first before Teresa had the chance. The news would be better met coming from her.

The day after, on Héctor’s birthday, Yemena still wasn’t better, and Teresa was put on watch again. Thankfully nothing even came close to what happened yesterday, and Ofelia gave her the verdict on what Juanna had said. Ofelia had told her she’d broken up the fight, she’d found the knives – nothing of Teresa’s involvement other than healing one of the boys’ wounds. Juanna had been just as livid about the incident, and called for an immediate search of all the children’s personal belongings starting the first of December, and was giving the task to Teresa, Yemena, and Nina, as it was their responsibility.

“And she tried to say ‘your blame if anything happens’, but I wouldn’t let her go that far. Who the hell brings their kids knives inside a church? This isn’t prison. Trust me, I know. I’ve been there.”

“Some of the children are taught to make their own. It’s…I’m just sickened by the whole thing.” Teresa sighed, exasperated and emotionally raw. “I’m going to do a thorough sweep of the common area while everyone’s in class tomorrow, and I’ll leave no stone unturned. Juanna’s right, and I’m not going to sit still while my children remain in danger. This has to stop now, before it gets worse.”

“By soldiers, do you think that boy meant a real military…or revolutionaries?” Ofelia asked.

“They’re both dangerous. He had no idea what he was talking about, Ofelia. His father was probably an old soldier, the war never truly leaves them. And sometimes they bring it to their own homes.”

“But it could happen again. It’s happened throughout my lifetime – and yours. Peace has only ever been in name, and soon something will set off the keg again.” Ofelia had obviously been thinking long and worrying hard about all of this. “War doesn’t just happen in cities. Santa Cecilia has seen her fair share.”

“I don’t want to talk about this, Ofelia. You know why I don’t.” Teresa cut her off.

“We can’t just ignore this if they’re bringing knives.”

“We’re not ignoring this! But it has nothing to do with war. Fear makes people do anything. We don’t need to drive ourselves crazy worrying over the future. We just need to do our jobs.”

Teresa was almost grateful to see a boy standing nearby out of the corner of her eye, waiting for them to finish. She turned towards him with a smile.

“Ernesto! Wonderful timing. I haven’t seen you in a while, nino. Something you need?”

Ernesto winced at the childlike moniker. Even at eleven, he still tried to pass himself off as a confident, brash, miniature adult sometimes. He certainly hated being babied, even the appearance of it.

“I was hoping to ask you for something.” He looked between her and Ofelia, trying to judge which one held the most open expression. Teresa usually won every time. “I was thinking…the orphanage should have a dog. Some sort of pet. For the children.”

Teresa and Ofelia exchanged a look. “This wouldn’t happen to be a guard dog, would it?” Ofelia asked, wondering if this sentiment of fear was starting to trickle down to most of the children at large.

“No, no, it wouldn’t even have to be that big. I could pick it out myself. Something harmless for the children to play with. An old dog, maybe, or some abandoned puppy. We’re good at taking in strays, aren’t we?” He tried to chuckle, but Teresa could tell he was still waiting on bated breath for an answer. It wasn’t one he was going to like.

Ofelia beat her to it. “That’s not going to happen, Ernesto. We’ve never had a dog here. They’re not sanitary and it would cost us too much to train.”

“I’ll train it. I’d be good at it.” he volunteered.

“You’ve never had a dog before, Ernesto.”

“Neither have you.”

Unlike most other children, whenever he was met with resistance from anyone he’d usually fire back with equal measure. Some children who simply acted out would get defensive; Ernesto merely seemed to see it as repartee. Not a real challenge. He usually found a way to get what he wanted somehow. And as much as the wrath of the nuns remained a childhood fear, showing he was grown up meant putting himself on their level. He was getting to be one of the older orphans, and it was easier to divorce himself from the rest of the children that way.

But Ofelia still stared sternly down at him. “It’s not happening, nino. I’ve already discussed it.”

“Really?” Ernesto feigned some surprise. “Because I heard Sister Sofia talking with Brother Marquel the other day. They were the ones who brought up the idea. They said something about ‘the next church meeting’, some proposal, and maybe requisitioning some dog food cans?”

It had been an impressive lie. Teresa saw right through it – Ernesto wouldn’t have used words like ‘requisitioning’ and ‘proposal’ unless he’d studied and prepared for just such a speech. Ofelia had reacted before she could point this out, however.

“What?! Those two know they could never go over Sister Juanna’s head with that nonsense – only I can do that! And I wasn’t let in on it? I’m going to have a word with those two. Before the meeting. They don’t need a dog, what are they playing at?” She stormed off, leaving Teresa to fill in the hole Ernesto had dug himself into. She waited until Ofelia was out of sight, then suspiciously raised an eyebrow.

“Ernesto…I’m not a mind reader, but you can probably tell I wasn’t born yesterday.”

He still kept up the smile. She tried kneeling down to his level, to look him in the eye. Intimidation wasn’t her style. “Ernesto. Out with it now. Sofia and Marquel didn’t say anything like that, did they?”

Having a six foot tall nun right in his face still made him falter, as it would anyone. “Not entirely.”

“That’s right. And what do we call it when someone tells us something untruthful?”

The smile broke; she knew he hated being lectured, and might suspect this leading tone of voice as being talked down to. “It was a lie, Ernesto.” she answered for him after a pause. “All of it.”

Ernesto hesitated, looking to the left quickly before meeting her gaze. “They _did_ have a discussion.”

“But they didn't _say_ it, Ernesto.”

"Well I had to pick somebody.” he reasoned. “And if I'd said Sister Juanna, Sister Ofelia never would have believed me. I'd have said you thought it up, but...that wouldn’t have been too smart when you're right there talking to her."

Teresa stood up, crossing her arms. "It isn't smart to lie, Ernesto. Any _idiota_ can do it. And lying comes with its own consequences, not only in the eyes of God but with everyone around you. You'll lose friends if you aren't honest with people."

Ernesto tried debating tactics once again. "Well, I think this place needs a dog. And if anyone can change the old nuns’ minds and make them get one, it’s you. Why wouldn’t you? Don’t you care about us?”

"Most of the changes I’ve made, I couldn't have done without the will of God and the Sisters of the church supporting me. It isn’t a question of you and the other children versus my fellow sisters-”

“Isn’t it?”

Teresa frowned. “No. It’s a lot of different factors, Ernesto. It costs more to feed one dog than it does to feed twenty children, for one thing. Many of the Sisters and children might actually be allergic to dogs and get sick. Dogs bark at nothing and keep you awake all night. The list goes on. We must try to abide by the rules in place – they’re there for a reason.”

Ernesto had been difficult with her before, whenever her wishes were diametrically opposed to his own. As a child, he never threw tantrums, only biding his time until he could have or take what he wanted. If Teresa told him he couldn’t have a midnight snack, she’d find herself being woken up by Sister Beatriz marching Ernesto down from the kitchens by his ear. If another Sister told him not to jump a hay bale as a stunt, he’d end up in her office ten minutes later with a broken arm and a smile on his face. The rules didn’t apply to him in his own mind, and he didn’t seem to care. Teresa had given him this lecture over half a dozen times. Maybe he wasn’t at the age or of the temperament to retain it yet, but unlike the rest of the Sisters she’d hadn’t given up on trying to teach him something.

But he wasn’t doing these things out of sheer defiance or folly. Ernesto was smart, and he always had a reason in his own mind for everything. He just wasn’t smart enough, maybe, to not get caught, which Teresa was grateful for. But in the face of punishment or being called out, he rarely broke character.

“Well, the way I understand it, we have something called democracy in this country.” He tried using another appeal, smiling like he had even a small chance. “I know what the monthly meetings are there for. Nuns vote on new changes and proposals. It’s what you’ve used to get things done. Majority rule. The same should apply to us. If I get enough of the kids to agree they’d like a dog, and enough of the nuns willing to sponsor me, I’m sure we can agree to something. Unless you don’t truly believe in it?”

Teresa remained where she was, armed crossed. She wasn’t going to have any of her children grow up to be politicians, of all things. She’d had to calmly, but firmly, put her foot down many times with him, and did so again here – perhaps with a bit more candor than she would for anyone else.

"As they say in Tijuana, you're pushing your luck.” she warned, watching the smile fall from his face. “I understand that it's something you really want, something you're even willing to argue with me over, but I don't rise to bait over a dog's breakfast. It's over my head, and yours too. Now go and play."

This final child-like reminder of his youth and her authority made the tiniest of scowls pass over his face, but like most emotions other than brevity he barely let it show. He simply nodded and walked away. Once he probably saw her as someone to rely on. Now, just another obstacle. Teresa prayed for him, like she did for all the other children, but for him especially she prayed that this seed of resentment he still carried wouldn’t grow into further selfishness. Everyone had the potential for change, under the right circumstances. Well, things were certainly going to change come December. Maybe she’d find the right opportunity for him. Or, with the stubbornly self-reliant way he was, he might find it himself.

But this conversation wasn’t going to dampen her enthusiasm for her favorite holiday; Héctor’s birthday. The gift-giving part of it came on December 1, his technically-found day, but that had been at midnight, and Teresa loved getting the celebrations started as soon as possible the day before. That evening for dinner, she had convinced Beatriz to whip up some extra chicken and cheese quesadillas off the menu for him and the other nuns – his favorite. She saved a spot for him next to her at the prestigious sisters’ table – since Juanna was absent this time around, no one objected, and welcomed him with cheers.

“It’s not every boy who gets two birthday celebrations.” Ofelia said to him, patting him on the back as he sat down. “Eight years old! I suppose you’ll be getting married soon.”

Héctor rolled his eyes and smiled a tiny, closed smile as the rest chuckled. Teresa always noted that he acted very grown-up sometimes, or at least more intuitively about how to respond to people than most children, if any. She rubbed his head affectionately, and he leaned into her side.

“Happy birthday, Héctor. You’d better stop growing up on me after this year.”

“Okay, Teresa. But you’d better start growing down until we’re even.” he joked, comparing their heights by reaching up as far as his hand could go, and the nuns around the table laughed.

“Hey, even Jesus Christ wasn’t a baby forever.” Ofelia chimed in, sending more laughs around. They spent the evening mostly talking amongst themselves over church business, and unofficially started a contest all the while over who could eat the most quesadillas in total. Héctor wasn’t a big eater, but as the birthday boy felt he should at least put in an effort.

Once in a while, he’d catch snippets of their conversation that amused him and he smiled, but Teresa noticed it wasn’t his usual smile. He seemed to catch himself in the middle of it, hesitate, and force it back down before his teeth ever showed. Something was bothering him.

She knew he didn’t want that much attention called to him if it was serious, so she waited until the nuns were deep into a healthy religious debate before she addressed him, in a lower tone of voice as a way of taking him aside. “Héctor? What’s wrong?”

“Hm?” He was busy with a big mouthful of chicken. Bad timing. She waited until he’d swallowed to start over again.

“Héctor, I think something’s been bothering you. You aren’t smiling like you usually would.”

“I’m happy, Teresa. See?” That closed, dimpled smile again. It wasn’t enough to convince her.

“Yes, I’m sure, but I think something’s still on your mind. You can tell me, nino.”

He gave a large, inward sigh, and his mouth twitched. “I…I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Even with me?” Now she was more concerned. “Héctor, if it’s something that serious-”

“No, it’s not! Not really.” He backtracked, trying to keep his voice down. “I just…” He looked across the room, towards the other children. None of them were watching him at all, engrossed in their own meals, but something about him still came off as self-conscious in their presence.

He turned back to Teresa. “I’ve got bad teeth, haven’t I?”

Teresa’s eyes widened. “Now who in God’s name told you that?” she demanded to know, almost forgetting to keep her voice down. Ofelia was the only one whose eyes darted over to her, but she figured she’d better stay out of it. He was her kid, after all.

“I don’t…I don’t know their name.” he backtracked, holding out his hands defensively.

“You know everybody here.” Teresa pressed. Héctor stammered, once again not eager to give up anyone, and she sighed resignedly. “Fine, fine, don’t tell me. But you know that isn’t true, right? You’re a smart boy, you have to know that.”

Héctor shrugged. “They didn’t just say they were bad. I’ve heard that before. They said they were like…dog’s teeth. That’s a lot more specific. And…kind of true.”

Teresa groaned, and rubbed her aching temple underneath her habit. “Héctor…you’re at an age when so many children are losing their old teeth. Your mouth’s going to be an active war zone for a while. That’s normal. Anyone who teases you about that is being very stupid. Don’t worry about it.”

 “But what if they don’t grow in like everyone else’s? What if they stay looking like this?”

“They’re not going to. I went through the same thing. Every child has.”

He frowned. “Maybe mine are extra bad.”

“When people bully you, it rarely says a lot about you, and more about the people themselves. They may have their own insecurities they’re dealing with. Or they might just be mean people; don’t pay attention to them either way. They’re saying it to hurt you, not because it’s true.”

Héctor paused, thinking about this for a while to himself. “What do you do?” he asked.

“What do I…what do you mean?”

“When people are mean to you.” He looked up at her, a lump in his throat. “There’s people who look at you when we’re in town and they’re scared of you. It’s not right.”

“Si, Héctor, I know. I may not have eyes in the back of my head like most nuns,” she joked, her old go-to quote he knew from early childhood, “but I do notice the way other people see me. But I’m surprised. With all the fun you children have on the weekends, I didn’t think you saw things like that happening.”

“Sometimes, I see everything too much.”

Teresa bit her lip. That was quite a statement. She wanted to give this answer the time it deserved. And now she had to make sure Héctor wouldn’t keep worrying about her, either. Far too young for that.

“Well, the way I think of it, people are reacting that way out of instinct, not anything personal. They’ve never seen me before. They don’t know me; how could it be personal? They might be ignorant in the way they respond sometimes, but I can’t control that. None of us can. All we can do is let it go, because if we keep holding onto it, we keep feeling awful about ourselves. You understand?”

Héctor nodded, and she smiled, sliding a couple extra quesadillas off of her own plate as she continued. “Eat up, Héctor, the sisters are already beating your count ten to one. And it may be because of age, but I honestly don’t care what strangers think of me. The sisters and the children who see me every day don’t think twice about my appearance. They’re used to it. And you’ve never been scared of me, right?”

 Héctor vigorously shook his head no, and at her insistence bit into another quesadilla. “No way. And if I got a mouthful of bad teeth, you wouldn’t be scared of me, right?” he said through a full mouth.

“Of course not. But don’t talk with your mouth full.” Teresa replied, and waited for him to finish. “So if, God forbid, something did happen to you, if somehow you’re right and your teeth grow in more crooked than a politician – that’s not something that determines who you are. If other people see you as strange, that’s because you’re a stranger. But if someone takes the time to know and love somebody, then they can find beauty in everything about them. And there’s beauty to be found in everyone.” Directing his attention across the table, she gestured to the right-hand corner. “Look at Sister Estela there.”

Estela was the oldest of the nuns, and despite having no seniority powers she was one of the most well-loved and respected of the Sisters. Even when the children had problems with old nagging biddies like Rodolpha or Juanna during lessons, none of them dared say a word against Estela. They had no reason. She was harmless, and wandered about the church like a playground, although her playing mostly made up of sitting on old benches whenever she got tired, humming old tunes to herself off-key, and slowly waving hello to anyone who passed by that she could see. She faded in and out of perceiving reality, but sometimes a good joke would catch her attention.

Even now, she was staring off into the distance in between Aliza and Rodolpha, and Rodolpha as usual was telling a less than savory joke about a priest and a donkey in between gulps of wine. Arriving at the punchline, Aliza laughed loudly, banging her hand on the table, and Estela came back to attention, and looked back and forth between the two of them before smiling a pure, toothless smile, just happy to be in the same room as all this laughter.

Teresa smiled warmly, and turned her direction back to Héctor to find him smiling too. “See that? That’s what happiness does. If we find something to be happy about, something we love to do in life, and someone we care for, and try to put positivity back into the world to everyone…well, there you are! People like that shine so beautifully, and they don’t all have to look a certain way.”

With the head start on him from the conversation, the nuns as a whole definitely beat Héctor, who only managed to get two down before they turned tepid, and he didn’t ever eat anything cold or his stomach would be mad at him all night. But Teresa was happy he’d been so good for the sisters, and touched that he was so concerned for her. She started her annual tradition that year, of waking him up at midnight for her birthday present to him.

She hadn’t wrapped it up too tightly, and he could see what it was past the colored paper when he held it in his hands. “A book?” he asked her, eventually unwrapping it fully and also finding a pen.

“Your own book.” she answered. “A journal.”

The purchase had been well worth it; she’d found a stall of a local bookbinder’s that had an offer on handmade, hand-bound journals for some sort of poetry event. She’d fallen in love with the sturdy little book of red leather, and from the look on his face, Héctor had too.

“You’re a creative soul. I’ve always seen that. I thought you should start writing everything that’s in your head down, before it gets all pent up and explodes.” she explained. “But explosions of creativity are still often the best kind. Do you like it?”

Immediately, he hugged her, the book falling down at his side. “Thank you so much!” After a long tender hug which neither of them wanted to break, Teresa reluctantly did so, thinking she’d better let him get some rest before school the next day.

“Happy birthday, Héctor. Tomorrow you can start writing anything you want. Isn’t that great?”

“Are you kidding me? I’m going to start on this right now!” He grabbed the pen that had fallen on the ground and leaned back against his pillow, flipping to the first blank page.

“Oh no. _Dios_ , I should have waited until morning.” Teresa put a hand to her head. “Héctor-”

“Just five minutes, I promise.”

“And five minutes more, and five minutes more. You always stay up too late reading. And Sister Sofia will have my head on a spit if you fall asleep in class again.”

“Okay, okay,” Héctor closed the book with a frown. “But I won’t be able to sleep, anyway.”

“Then for your next birthday I’ll get you whiskey, like those farming mothers do to silence their babies.” She shook her head, remembering the shocking practice from not so long ago still vividly. “Though if you can’t even handle your favorite quesadillas cold, I doubt you could even handle whiskey.”

“Maybe I could. I’m not a baby anymore.” he challenged. He was definitely just kidding; he’d never even seen whiskey in his life.

“You couldn’t even handle communion wine at last year’s Christmas service.” she parried back. “That was Sister Juanna’s best red. Remember how angry she was?”

Héctor made a face. “I liked it all right – it just didn’t like me.”

“That’s usually the case when someone drinks an entire cup of it their first time.”

“And if she hadn’t been standing **right there** -”

“You could have moved two centimeters to the left to avoid getting it on her shoes.”

Teresa couldn’t help but remember it fondly. Héctor was probably the only person in history to have ever done that to Juanna and lived. He still felt guilty over it, but Teresa herself held no reservations. She had needed to run out of the service quickly in order to avoid making a scene and laughing herself sick, which she had in the company of Ofelia later, anyway.

Still, she could think about it tomorrow; now she was yawning as well. “I’ll have to think of something better for you next year. But I’m too tired to think anymore.” she excused. “You still going to stay up?”

“I don’t know.” he shrugged. “I’m not tired yet.”

“Well, I don’t care what you do. I’m going to bed. Old ladies like me should not be up past midnight. Especially with that entire inspection on my plate.” She stretched, not as well as she used to be able to. “Good night, Héctor. Happy birthday.”

“Good night, Teresa.”

As she was about to shut the door, she heard him call out to her again. “Teresa?” She opened it wider, now realizing that stretch had done a bit more harm to her shoulder than she wanted, and leaned on the doorknob trying not to let it show.

“Si, Héctor?”

“I love you. I hadn’t said it in a while and I wanted to. I’m sorry.” He wiped his eye with the back of his hand, and Teresa realized he was crying.

“What’s wrong, mijo?”

“Nothing. Some of the older guys said boys aren’t supposed to say they love things or cry. But I don’t care what they think anymore. I do.”

Teresa smiled. “That’s good. And boys can _absolutely_ still say it, Héctor. I love you too.”

He smiled at her. “The one who’s older than all of them told them to knock it off. He says he doesn’t like bullies. I think he’s going to be my friend.”

“That’s wonderful. It’s about time you had one that wasn’t a silly old lady.”

“He said he’s going to get a puppy for me in town.”

“Ernesto?” The smile fell off her face. Ernesto apparently hadn’t been bluffing about telling the other children his idea. “ _Madre de Dios_ , if he thinks he’s still going to sneak something in under my-”

“No, Teresa, it’s all right!” Héctor held up his hands, trying to placate her. “He’s not really going to.”

“Oh. Well, good. I told him not to. It’s too dangerous. What did you say to convince him?”

“I told him I liked cats better.”

With that, Teresa rushed out of the room, now knowing that the strange purring noise she’d heard coming from the main sleeping room wasn’t just somebody snoring. Out of the frying pan…


	5. Making Your Mark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hector's love for music continues to grow, and Teresa worries as the window for adoption for both of her remaining boys starts to close. And an enthusiastic author wants to hear from you! - stay tuned for the end.

Over the next year, Teresa saw with new clarity how much Héctor’s soul was truly in his creativity, and sometimes at the expense of his other responsibilities. As a frequent daydreamer in class before, now he was spending every opportunity he could writing, drawing, letting his mind run free in his own world instead of in the present moment. Teresa had gotten word passed down from many of the teachers that he was a difficult case for them, but there wasn’t much she could influence in their domain. Most still saw him as a bright young child full of hope and potential, if not the right motivation.

But Sister Juanna was not a warm, hopeful person, and she took negligence for what it was. Although she could no longer punish students in her own way, she could still certainly give them an earful. In the past, over the years Ernesto had been the biggest problem child in her class, starting debates with her often and without fear. It had gotten to the frustrating point where, unable to exercise her full control, she made a decision she would have hated herself for when she’d first started teaching, and gave up on him entirely, kicking him out of her lesson for good. Héctor, by all accounts, was a much quieter student and never keen to speak up out of fear of her. But idleness was idleness in her book, and he was just as persistent in that. At eight years old, he became the second child ever kicked out of her religious class, and he was glad to be far away from it. After all, she didn’t tell Bible stories as well as Teresa.

He’d done his best to appeal to her for clemency after she heard the news from Ofelia, and was ready to break down Juanna’s door herself. “Teresa, it’s all right. I don’t even like that class, and she doesn’t like me either. If I went back there when she doesn’t want me, we’d both be miserable. Hey, at least this means I can help you in the garden more, right?” he tried to encourage.

“Héctor, I’m not worried about any stupid garden! I’m worried about your education!”

“I’ve got other classes. They like me there. It’s just Juanna, you know how she is and there’s no danger. The more I’m away from her, the happier she is, and that works out better for everyone.”

“I don’t think she’s ever been happy, nino, even on her best days.” Teresa bit her lip with a frown. If things had gotten this bad, who’s to say Juanna wouldn’t pressure the other teachers to try and let him go, or even kick him out eventually? Well, they’d try. Over her dead body. Steam still seemed to be coming out of her ears, because Héctor was still looking at her like he was trying to calm a raging bull.

“I promise, Teresa, it'll be all right. Just please…don’t get mad like everyone else is.”

Teresa sighed. “I’m not mad at you, nino. I was never a model student myself. Hey, did I ever tell you about my first and only day in a church classroom?” His gentleness seemed to have calmed her down enough for a story; a win-win for Héctor. He sat down next to her and listened eagerly.

“Back when I was a little girl, I had a teacher for language, a real old crusty woman with no soul named – something-Sera, Merena, something? Dios, I can’t even remember, I must have blocked it out. Anyway, if you thought Sister Juanna was bad, oh man, this lady could make Cortez shake in his imperialist boots. The first day I met her, she had it out for me. I always stood out as the little odd-looking girl. So this day, I was writing my lessons when I confused some letter or another. I wasn’t much more than five. She passes by and she looks at the letters on my blackboard. She shouts out ‘WRONG!’ Down goes a yardstick. I see it out of the corner of my eye-”

“At you?”

“About to be, yes. That thing would have scarred my hand for life by the force of it had it connected. But a miracle happened – as it came by my hand, I reached out quicker than wildfire and caught it. Fast as a bolt of lightning. I couldn’t believe what I had done, but I was too angry to even think about it. I said to her, I remember yelling at the top of my lungs…”

She paused for a moment, raising an eyebrow as she appraised Héctor. “How old are you again? Eight, nine? Maybe I shouldn’t say what I said.”

“Go on, tell me.”

“Well…I said something like ‘You don’t ever touch me again, you stupid old… **bat**.’ Let’s go with that. ‘You horrible old…eh… **witch**. I’m going home and never coming back here again.’ And I marched right out. I knew she was no servant of God. And in fact, I never set foot inside a church again until I decided to become one myself. A better one, I hope.”

“Really? I always thought you were a nun. Even when you were a kid.” he chuckled.

“The path to God leads you on many interesting travels. It isn’t always a straight line, however strong it is. I found God in my own way – and a lot of that had to do with rebellion.” She nodded. “Si, I can see how it would be frustrating for you to be confined to a desk. But these sisters are good people, and they only want to give you a good education you deserve. Try a little harder for them, Héctor. Please?”

At the time, he’d made all sorts of promises, things he planned on following up with. But things never seemed to go as planned. Most of his afternoons were spent absent, and although Teresa at first hadn’t noticed due to being the resident nurse for all Santa Cecilia’s orphans, it wasn’t something that could remain silent for long. Hector was going into town on his own more and more often, and once this had become a regular occurrence, it prompted Teresa to sit him down for another talk.

“You’re far too young to be wandering out on your own. I don’t have the time of day to go with you everywhere anymore, and I’m sorry, but I can’t allow you to just walk around unsupervised.”

“I’m not doing anything wrong. I mean…all I want to do is just be out there. Be around people. Not a lot, but not just on the weekends, either.” he reasoned with her. “There’s so many people in town who only know me as ‘Teresa’s boy’, and I don’t know them at all. I want them to see me as Héctor – as myself. Maybe one of them can teach me a trade. I can get a job. What if I never get adopted when I'm older, and I need to find some way to fend for myself?”

“You’ll never have to fend for yourself, Héctor. Not as long as I’m around.” she disagreed adamantly. “Do you think that if you don’t get adopted by a certain time, we’ll just kick you out?” She scoffed at the notion incredulously, but gave the next sentence the weight in deserved, just in case there was any real doubt. “We love you, Héctor. You always have a home with us. Plus, it’s never too late to say that some family won’t want to adopt you eventually. It may be sooner than you think.”

He was still skeptical, and still desperate to make his case. “Please, Teresa. I won’t do anybody any good by just sitting around here. We’re part of a town, a community. I’ve seen people in the basilica for Mass every day of my life, and I had no idea who they were before. We’re a church, not an island.”

“I understand that, Héctor. But I don’t think it’s safe for you to be wandering around town on your own. Especially at night. You’re still a child.”

“I don’t mean to stay out late. It’s just…when the music is playing, you kind of lose track of time. When there’s guitars and singing and dancing, and everyone is out having fun together, you don’t think about anything else. Everything is happening in its own moment. It’s wonderful. There’s nothing else like it.”

Teresa couldn’t really muster an argument to that, even if she’d wanted to. Keeping him away from his passion would be like depriving him of air. He wouldn’t be the type to go expressly behind her back like Ernesto would, she knew that – as long as she set up some guidelines, there’d be no trouble.  
“Then you have my permission to go into town on your own. But there must be one condition. You can’t stay out after dark anymore. For any reason. And don’t be skipping class, or I’ll be very upset with you.”

Ultimately, she was glad she’d made the decision to let him roam. He came back a happier, healthier boy with so many fun stories to tell her about people he’d met. Some of the musicians he met even let him try out their guitars for fun, even if they were still too big for him. His opportunities came piecemeal, depending on who was willing to be generous day by day, but he still kept trying, little by little learning enough chords to get by and humming them over and over to himself. From all the enthusiasm he had even talking about it, Teresa learned that the only thing he loved more than hearing music was playing it himself. Creativity wasn't just in his blood, but in every part of his soul. She might have guessed as much. 

Teresa knew for his next birthday what she had to do; if she wanted to show him even more that he had her support, he'd need his own guitar. She made her own secret trip into town months in advance of November, heading for the music shop Hector always used to stop and stare at. She met the owner, Carmelo Torres, a surly perfectionist who hand-crafted everything he owned out of the purest material, so he said. His work definitely showed quality, and even if his manners left a lot to be desired upon their first meeting, he took the commission from her readily. 

"Send one of your prettier girls to pick up the order, eh?" he'd said, and Teresa who was already nearly out the door quickened her pace. Maybe ten years ago she would have told him off gently. Twenty years ago, she would have used more loaded words. And thirty years ago, she would have decked him. She wondered when that cycle of behavior would come full-circle; at what age would she finally stop caring about being benign and gentle? Maybe once Héctor was adopted and had some better role models looking after him, she could finally let loose. 

She'd been scoping out her share of families in town, and getting information on some from Sisters Cosima and Una, who were out and about all the time. The Diaz family had too many children already, though they were kind. Fernanda had been taken by the Sanchez clan, made mostly of older women who weren't looking for boys to add anytime soon. Options were running thin. Maybe she'd have better luck by next year. 

Despite all the trouble it had been dealing with that creepy guitar-maker, it was worth it to see the look on Héctor's face when she gave his present to him. Midnight, December 1st, yet again, with another present of a small music box the day before to mark his actual birthday. She couldn't resist surprising him with the real gift she'd had in mind for him, and he'd been completely stunned.

"It's beautiful." he managed to choke out, just about ready to cry. 

"Hey, hey, eyes dry, mijo. It's all right. Whatever you're feeling, just play them on here from now on." she encouraged, and placed the guitar gently in his hands and sat down next to him. "Go on, Héctor. Now you can play for the world. I'll be your first audience."

He'd spent most of that evening practicing rather than playing confidently, but he'd have plenty of time for that. Teresa had stayed up listening to him until he was too tired to try anymore and fell asleep, still reaching out for his guitar with sore red fingertips. Indeed, as soon as he'd picked it up that first night, it seemed like he was never going to put it down again. As soon as classes were over, he'd run right back to his room, grab his guitar, and head into town.

Teachers were still complaining to Teresa that he paid too much attention to his own writing rather than their lectures. But she had learned to ignore them. The orphanage had already produced one doctor, one seamstress, half a dozen tradesmen, and even a few destined for the priesthood themselves. They could afford to let one boy follow his dreams beyond the classroom. As long as Hector was happy and always gave his best effort, she didn't care about the rest. 

His love of playing paid off. He was getting better and better every day, and on rainy days when everyone was huddled up to dry in the basilica, they loved to hear his chords echoing off the vaulted ceiling. Even though Héctor went to Teresa more often now to treat fresh blisters and cuts on his fingers, they didn't deter him at all. He'd tell her about some song he heard playing in town that day that he'd tried replicating, sometimes for hours on end. Some he'd only heard once and fell in love with, and desperately tried to recreate the tunes from memory. Usually he'd end up with something that in his view was not-quite right, something that felt good to play but had sounded far different. And some chords were a lot harder to manage than others. But Teresa never let him give up on himself. 

"That just means you're writing your own songs, _mijo_. That's way more advanced." she told him, making him light up. "And you're already a better guitar player than I ever was, trust me."

"You played guitar?" he asked in awe. 

"Si, I was never a formal musician, but I have some good memories with an old band from Mexico City. Back before the riots. Maybe when you're older I'll tell you the full story one day. But it's where I learned most of my songs that I used to sing to you all the time. Back when you were very small."

"But I've never heard you play." As usual, the guitar was strapped over his shoulder, and he brought it around and handed it off to her. "Here. While my hands heal up. Can you play for me? Please?"

Teresa gave him a small, apologetic smile. "H _é_ ctor...my hand...there's a reason I haven't played since then. It's no good, nino." She held her left hand up to him, which he'd seen so often that he almost completely forgot about it. 

"Oh. Right. I'm sorry."

As terrible as it felt to not have the ability anymore, it felt even worse to see the excitement and hope deflate out of him. If this was a good way to connect to her boy, well...never say never. She'd do her best. "But for you, I think I'll make an exception." she retracted, with new vigor. "I can give you some idea of what I was like once. Give it here and let's see what these old bones can muster." 

He sat by her side happily as she adjusted herself around the child-size guitar, propping it up in her lap and bending her neck at a pretty uncomfortable angle in order to see what she was actually doing. She didn't know when the strings were last tuned, but considering she'd have to do all the tuning and playing with her left hand, she took a shot in the dark and left it alone. Once, even when they were nearly charred to the bone she'd been able to still control all five fingers, even if they moved rather stiffly. Now, those bones were weak as cheese, and three of her fingers had practically seized up for good.

Using her right hand, she tried to position them to hold on the guitar strings she needed for her notes. "This isn't going to be very complex- _ai-!_ " she hissed, as the sharpness of the final string bit into what was left of her damaged fingertip. Still, she soldiered on, and turned to smile at him. "It won't be like the musicians you're used to, but I think I'll manage." she reassured him, trying to cover up the pain. She did a good job of it when it mattered. Almost too well. 

From far back in her memory, she tried to play an old favorite - this was one of the simple ones, that she and the old boys from her past used to play on drunk nights out. No lyrics to it this time - she never thought of herself as much of a singer anyway, and Héctor was only nine. Granted, he'd heard enough of Rodolpha's jokes to last a lifetime, and who-knows-what-else on his own in town, but this was still God's house and she wasn't taking any chances with Him anymore.

She nearly bit her tongue off trying to hold in a scream the first time she played a note. The strings dug in like knives on her left hand as she applied the pressure they needed. And the finger that was only half a digit now after she'd had to amputate a rotting half of it a decade ago, was screaming in pain despite how much she was trying not to use it. But all things considered, the song still sounded pretty good, and brought back some rare good memories from the old days.

And Héctor was loving it. Without saying a word, he'd closed his eyes and put his head gently onto the back of the guitar from where he was sitting. He was feeling the rhythm in his head, and from the smile on his face loved it just as much as any concert in Santa Cecilia. Teresa was touched. It was the one and only song she was ever going to play him, for certain - the pain was too much. But her heart was happy, and that made it far less painful than it would ordinarily have been. 

Even though she'd made a promise to herself to leave him alone when he was in town, not wanting to be a mother hen when she couldn't even call herself his mother to begin with - she still couldn't deny her nature. More often she was checking in with Cosima and Una specifically about Héctor, and they always gave her a lot of details.

"He's been teaching chords to the little ones in the market-"

"-raised money all afternoon. Gave it to a starving beggar right before heading home-"

"-bought a lollipop for some boy with a bad leg. He got him to dance to his favorite song..."

All of these made Teresa's day when she heard them, and even though she couldn't tell Héctor she had the nuns keeping him under watch, she was that much more proud of him. And one day, a new report offered her hope for Héctor's future.

"-the Roijas girl, Carina or something? - she stops by to listen to him all the time. Her family's well off, Alberto's the local tanner, and they've been looking to have another child since their last daughter. His brother had, anyway...Jorge? That's his name, right, Cosima? Anyway, Jorge and his wife-"

Teresa's mind had started whirring with possibilities, and soon she made another visit to town herself. Further intel in town from gossipy neighbors gave her some more clues about this family: Alberto and Jorge ran the shop. Alberto's wife had been a wealthy socialite from Mexico City who settled down, unexpectedly, in Santa Cecilia with a new husband who didn't seem like her at all.

Five months later, their daughter Catrina was born. It didn't take a professor to work out what had happened. Eight years after that, their second daughter Zoraida had followed, and was the apple of her parents' eye. Jorge had been more sensible, marrying a local woman three years older than him. 

"They pass by my stall all the time. Jorge's always looking at material for baby clothes." said a cloth merchant. "But Salma doesn't want a baby, she says they're too much work."

"Interesting. Well, I can agree with her that they are, but in my experience they're well worth it. Thank you very much." 

She wasn't going to just burst into their home and invite herself to dinner in order to feel them out, but luckily she didn't have to. She'd found Héctor down a side street quite by accident, with what looked like the two Roijas girls nearby him listening. Catrina was sitting and listening intently, holding onto her baby sister, who was clapping her hands and tapping her feet exactly to the beat. There was a born dancer there.

"Hola, Héctor!" she called out to him. Héctor looked up from his guitar and waved at her, surprised but just as happy to see her outside. 

"Teresa! What are you doing here?"

"Oh, I like to get out of the church every now and again. Not as often as I used to. But it's good to see you while I'm here. Who are your friends?" 

The two girls had been awestruck by Teresa, and more than a little nervous. Teresa was used to the impression small children had of her; an impossibly tall and imposing stranger in dark robes, with the strangest nose they'd ever seen. She smiled, and bent down as far as she could to their level. "Hello there. You're the Roijas children, aren't you? My name's Sister Teresa. I'm from the local church."

Although Catrina still hadn't found her voice yet, she managed a small head nod. Héctor backed her up. "This is Catrina. I met her outside of school. Her school, I mean. She's always really nice, and her family gives me hot meals sometimes."

This was definitely promising. "Oh, that's wonderful, Hector. So nice of you to do that for our boy, Catrina." 

Zoraida had by now gotten over her surprise, and was now playfully reaching up towards Teresa, begging to be lifted high into the air. "Hello, little one." Teresa greeted her personally. "How old is she?"

"She's two. Just last week."

"Is it all right if I hold her, Catrina?"

"S-sure. Go ahead."

Teresa was excited to finally have a baby in her arms again, and as Zoraida giggled at her smile she bounced the baby around. " _Ai_ , Héctor, you were the last tiny little precious  _infante_ I held this way. It's been far too long." she said.

" _Teresa_ -" he groaned, only half-joking in how embarrassed he was. Catrina giggled, finally warming up to her. As Teresa handed the girl back to her older sister, she handed her a small item that she'd bought as well. "Here you are, nina. I don't know what I was going to do with a red hair ribbon, anyway. We aren't allowed to wear any. But I thought it was beautiful, and now I see that it was meant for you."

Zoraida took hold of it, and loved it so much that she immediately stuck it in her mouth. Both Héctor and Teresa laughed, and Catrina being the big sister was too busy pulling it back out again.

"Eh, _gross_ -" she whined, holding the spit-covered ribbon out to dry. "It's ruined now. Sorry, Sister Teresa."

"Don't worry about it, Catrina. After all, it's her present. She can do what she likes with it." 

She stayed with the group for a while, all the while trying to get a read on whether Catrina was new hermana or prima material for Héctor. They certainly seemed to get along very well. Catrina seemed to have been raised with good values, and didn't look down on Héctor for being poorer or an orphan. And little Zoraida was absolutely adorable and Héctor doted on her as much as her own big sister. Yes, she could definitely see them being a family. 

After a good hour or so of conversation and music, Teresa's back was starting to hurt from sitting cross-legged on the ground with them. Besides, it was getting late, and she needed to follow her own example. "All right, Héctor. Not to break up the party, but it's getting closer to sunset. We should be heading home."

Héctor slung his guitar back over his shoulder. "All right, then. I'll see you tomorrow, eh?"

Héctor would normally have taken off running, but this time he stayed standing to wait for Teresa. She shook her head. "It'll take an entire year for me to stand up again at my age, Hector. Why don't you head back on your own? You know the way. I'll catch up with you."

He waved goodbye to the girls before starting out for home, and Catrina called out after him. "Hurry back, Této!"

"I'll see you after school, Trina!"

Nicknames. Well, there was another good sign. They'd already grown close. She turned her attention back to Catrina, smiling at her. "Well, this has certainly been a wonderful time. Most enjoyment I've had in years. I've loved getting to know you both."

As Catrina stood up and lifted her sister, ready to head for home, Teresa tried to rise. It really was taking forever, and she was both grateful and somewhat embarrassed at how patiently Catrina waited for her. Her back may have irritating, but every time she sat or kneeled down it seemed like all the nerves in her right leg seized up at once. She had to use the wall to help her, and as Catrina kindly moved forward to try and help, she held out her hand.

"No, nina, I'm all right. _Gracias_. You're very kind to help an old lady like me, but I'm used to doing this."

With a shudder, she shifted her weight to prop herself up, and eventually lifted off the wall to stand tall again. Not graceful, but at least not as disheveled a mess as she'd feared, and at least she hadn't fallen.

"There we are." She dusted herself off. "I had better be heading home, while I'm still standing."

"Okay. Good to meet you, Sister. I've heard of you before. Héctor talks a lot about you."

Héctor this time, not Této. Well, maybe it was a special nickname. Some siblings had that. Her primos had called her _Pico Pajaro_. "That's very nice to hear. He hasn't told me a lot about you, but I'm very glad to have met you both as well. You've known Héctor for a long time, it seems."

"Not really. We met this year. He was playing outside when I left school. He's always there usually now, to see me."

"That's very nice. You said he's been to see your family? He's eaten meals with you?"

"Well, not with us. Mama says we shouldn't let him in the house."

That was a bit discouraging. When they'd called Alberto's wife high-maintenance, Teresa has expected someone with high standards and tastes that were hard to cater to. Maybe a little difficult. Not that she was a complete snob. But she betrayed nothing of the disappointment. "Oh. Well...you said he's had hot meals there?"

"Not with us, with me. I give him half of mine. I told him they're from my mama. But she doesn't know." Catrina stared at the ground. "She doesn't know I like him. He doesn't know, either. You won't tell, will you?"

"Catrina, I'm sure Héctor knows that you care for him. I think it's very kind of you to. Unfortunately at the church, children go out to new families pretty quickly. Not everyone has the opportunities most children have to make friends there. So I know he appreciates you."

What puzzled Teresa was why, if this was the case, Héctor hadn't mentioned her at all and it was only Cosima and Una that had brought her up. Maybe he did know that Catrina's family weren't as kind to him as she led on. Maybe he hadn't wanted Teresa to start meddling. Teresa herself felt slightly guilty. She hadn't exactly been in the right spying on him to begin with, and it had all been for naught if he wasn't going to get adopted. Maybe she could find someone in Oaxaca-

"Sister Teresa?"

"Yes?"

Apparently she'd been lost in thought long enough for Catrina to try and grab her attention again. This happened more and more often with age. "I'm sorry, nina. My mind tends to wander places. I have to wait for it to return again. But it's back now."

Catrina gave her a small, confused look. Teresa sighed; she'd been too used to Héctor being her only audience, and he understood all her little eccentricities better than most people. Zoraida yawned in Catrina's arms, giving Teresa her cue.

"I probably should be going. It was good to finally meet you. I'm sure Héctor has a very good friend in you."

Catrina frowned. "I don't know if that's true. You said he hasn't told you anything about me?"

"I wish he had. You're a very bright young girl."

She shifted her weight uncomfortably. "You won't tell him, though, right?"

"Tell him what, nina?"

"You _know_ what. Don't you? I thought nuns knew everything."

"I'm the one nun who doesn't, I'm afraid."

Looking over her shoulder down the street, towards the city center. Catrina didn't indulge her in explaining. "It doesn't matter. I have to go." Hoisting Zoraida up in her arms again, as Zoraida waved goodbye, she took off running down the street with her. Teresa was just as confused, but didn't leave herself long to think about it. She had a sunset to race back to the church.

If nothing was going to come of the Roijas family...well, she was practical. She wouldn't bother them again. There'd be plenty of opportunities for Héctor, now that the town was growing to know and love him. Of course, that line of thinking hadn't worked for orphans like Ernesto. Maybe there would be someone in Oaxaca for him too. It was definitely worth a try. She would write to her family. It was a slim chance, but she'd do everything she could to make sure these kids wouldn't miss out on having a home of their own. 

But that stupid, selfish thought popped up in her mind again as she crossed back onto church grounds. Once they were all gone, once there were no more battles to fight, children to raise...where would she be? Probably crying her eyes out. But she wouldn't think about that today, or even tomorrow. Maybe there would always be people to help. And from what she'd heard from the nuns circulating around Mexico City and their damned politicians, turmoil wasn't ending anytime soon.

* * *

 "You told him **what**?!"

Outside of Sister Juanna's office, the Sisters and Brother Marquel listening outside at the door shook as the angry growl in Teresa's voice suddenly jumped, with a rage they'd never heard before. She'd marched into the administrative building with an unstoppable determination that no one could stop, and without a word, had gone into Juanna's office, something even the people working there for decades had never dared to do without knocking. Whatever Juanna had done this time, it had been the last straw. Teresa had shut the door behind her, so they could barely hear anything of what had brought her there...until now.

Inside the office, Sister Juanna sat immovable at her desk, an eyebrow raised, unimpressed at Teresa's motives. Teresa didn't care if she was impressed or not, frankly. All that mattered to her was that a child was crying. And it was entirely Juanna's fault. That was enough for her to act.

Juanna cleared her throat, answering her in monotone. "I told him that he was simply too old to be considered for adoption anymore. I won't be berated by the likes of you for speaking the truth. Honestly, it's entirely his fault. His troublesome attitude his made him difficult to deal with from the start - did he imagine that any reasonable people looking for a child would indulge his self-involvement?"

Teresa remained silent, and Juanna cold. She straightened up in her chair. "So you see, marching in here like an impudent child is not going to change facts. He's not going to be adopted. You can march right back out there and tell him that."

"I'm not going anywhere." Teresa seethed, standing her ground. "You've never cared for these children's feelings, but it's my job to. Whether it is true or not...you don't **ever** tell a child that nobody wants him. You don't **ever** tell him that he's unlovable, and that it's **his** fault." She paced in front of her desk, never breaking eye contact with her. Juanna returned likewise.

"I have put up with every injustice you have done to me - I have never come in here complaining. There's no point. It's not important how you view me. What's important is that these children have a home here. That they feel safe. They're our children. We have to treat them like family. Maybe that's never been your viewpoint. I'm not asking you to be better with children. That's not in your nature. But if you hurt a child, I will march in here, again and again, until you understand that **_I will not allow it_**."

Juanna rose, her chair sliding back with full force, and gave her a baleful glare. "How dare you speak to your superior in this way." she said quietly, with full emphasis and meaning on every word. 

Teresa didn't flinch for a second. "And how dare you call yourself a servant of God." she responded with equal weight. 

The nuns waiting with bated breath, then jumped again as they heard something small but resonant hit the other side of the door. Juanna had thrown something, and intended to miss. Teresa, on the other end of the door, hadn't moved. 

Instead, she bent her head, closed her eyes and shut herself to the world for one small second. "I pray to thee, o blessed Christ, for the forgiveness I cannot grant within my pride and mortal sin. You have commanded me to love others as to love thyself. I vow to follow thy Word, and to seek forgiveness in my heart for those who have trespassed-"

"Get out. Out."

Teresa opened her eyes, to find the unflappable Juanna seething before her. "I'm not finished." she told her.

"Then finish your sentiments outside my office."

Teresa was happy to leave. She'd said what needed to be said, let her know that she wasn't going to take this lying down, and even had guessed correctly Juanna wasn't going to change her mind. That wasn't the priority. It was what needed to be done. Now, she had a new mission. A child was crying. Hurrying as fast as she could back to the chapel, she found him where he'd been left, in a corner kneeling on the ground. The sobs had stopped. He was sitting there, quietly, his back to the door. He barely moved. Barely even breathed. It haunted her instantly, and would for the rest of her days.

Still, she dared to break the silence. "Ernesto?"

He gave a shudder at her voice, but didn't turn away.

"Ernesto? It's Teresa. I came as soon as I heard what had happened. I...I'm so sorry."

She struggled to keep her own voice calm, but it broke with emotion near the end. Ernesto's arms slowly crossed over his chest. Holding onto himself, his hands tensed, forming claws. His head bent down, almost to the floor. But the Basilica had excellent acoustics, and even from such a position as he was in, she heard every word he said.

"Go away. I don't want anyone here. I don't want to hear what you have to say. Just get out."

Teresa shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. "I'm sorry, Ernesto."

"I don't want your pity."

"I'm not offering pity, Ernesto. I'm asking for forgiveness." She kneeled down at the pew, near the front of the golden cross at the center of the church, still facing him. "This wrong was done to you by one of us. We were tasked to protect you by God. We are the caretakers of his children. We are all responsible for this sin committed against you. On behalf of myself and all my fellow sisters - I pray for forgiveness in the eyes of God and the Holy Son." 

She knelt at the altar for several minutes, her eyes closed. She didn't see what happened next after that time, but she could feel it in her heart. She heard an echo of what had come before - this time a cacophonous, crashing sound of something being thrown across the room. A pew, maybe. Whatever the case was, it sent shock waves up her spine with how loud and endlessly reverberating it seemed. Flashes of war crossed her mind that had been dormant for years. Screams of her fellow men. Dead bodies of friends she couldn't save. The gasoline explosions and destruction of the land she'd lived on for years. She had prayed every day for the strength to forget, and eventually the strength to live with the horror of memory. 

Still, it made her tense up, and she held the tears in beneath clenched eyes until they felt ready to implode and burn with the pressure. Ernesto was breathing now, hard, and sobs escaped him despite himself. She forced herself to remain still. 

"I pray to my God you find peace. That we all may learn from this wrong committed on the Father, upon his son and his children." she stated, hearing her own voice echo from the ceiling in the silence, until it didn't even sound like her own. She continued. "My child, you are loved by God."

"I'm not a child!"

She opened her eyes, and turned slowly to face him. Face pale, eyes bright red and blazing. He had been holding in far too much pain for a lifetime. "Don't you understand? I'm nobody's child. I've never belonged to anyone, and I have never even belonged to this place, however much you try to pretend. They always made sure I knew it. And where were you? Where were you? You'd given up on me like all the rest."

Slowly, she rose. This time, she could not hide the pain on her face; her leg burned from the nerves screaming together. And with nothing to lean herself against to pull upwards, she was forced to lean back on it. Breathing heavily, she looked up into his face. No emotion. Cold. Wholly unconcerned. Just simply...curious.

"Once, you told me I was one of the good ones." she told him, smiling slightly at the recollection. "You probably don't remember that. Ernesto...you're right. This awful thing done to you was not one incident. It's all of us, failing to recognize your needs and your pain. I understand that now. You are right - and I want to do what I can to fix everything I have ignored. Whatever you need, I want to help you."

Leaning against the problem leg, putting so much pressure on it that it seemed to explode from within, she rose herself up solely on the muscle that remained. Standing, shaky, and resolved. Ernesto still was more than a head shorter than her, but he looked up at her with the same amount of determination. "I don't need anyone to fix things for me." he said, confidently. "Everything I have, I've gotten myself. I've taken, myself. I've been the only one, and that's the only way I can be sure of anything."

He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, and reaching into his pocket carefully, combed back stray hairs that had fallen into his face. "I'm a man now, Teresa. I must make my own way. This place has served its purpose, and ultimately outside of a house of God, it's a home for old ladies and children. Not for me." He straightened his jacket, checking the seams, perhaps to distract himself. "I'm meant for greater things. I've always known that. And once I find what I'm meant to be and do in this world, nothing will stop me. Maybe this was just the push I needed. If I'm not wanted here anymore, then I'm leaving. I don't need anyone's help."

From anyone else, in any other context, this could have been inspiring. But Teresa saw the darkness, the pain, and the way he was trying to cope with it, for what it was. He wanted a home, he wanted love - and if he felt he couldn't get it safely from here, he wasn't going to take help from anyone affiliated with the place. She realized that the main thing that stopped her getting through to him, was the one thing she had relied on most; her status as a servant of God.

With this revelation, she knew what she needed to do. She removed her veil, letting it fall to the floor and her thick, curly silver hair fell around her head. She took a moment to accept what she had done, and crossed herself across the chest. She looked up at him, praying that this, of all things, would send a message.

"Ernesto, look at me. I am a woman who has given her life to purpose, given her soul to God. But I am a woman first. My name is Teresa Alcala. I am a wife, widow, mother and daughter. Once, I believe, I was like you. I was lost. I had no home. I felt completely alone on this earth and fearful of anything but my own judgement." She took a slow step forward. "And like you, I was impatient. It led to me losing everything. When you look at me, you see an old, shriveled woman who complies and condescends. But I am talking to you now as Teresa. And I am begging you to stay. And I promise you myself, as Teresa - I will do what I can to help you."

This gesture had surely surprised him. He hadn't expected it, and it nearly ruffled his cool exterior he was trying to maintain. But, like many things throughout his life, he had bounced back quickly, his face settling once again into neutrality. Emotions were a dangerous world, and too painful for him to want to experience. He had trained himself too well. 

"I think you're mistaken, Teresa." he tried to smooth over, like she'd simply just made a mistake rather than bear him her heart. "I'm not impatient at all. I've waited for opportunities my entire life. I agree, no man is an island. I'll make myself a home eventually. I'll find something I love, people who care for me. Completely. And no one will ever hurt me again." 

The ominous and heavy tone in his voice stopped this from being as positive a sentiment as he intended. Teresa's hand and her leg were both shaking, burning, and Ernesto ignored him both. He walked himself to the door, on the other end of the church, and before opening it to leave, turned around to address her one last time. He smiled, almost as if he didn't see how much pain she was in. Almost as if he didn't care. His pain mattered most, but he refused to feel it.

"I know that. Because from now on...I'll make sure of it." 

Opening the door, he walked out into the courtyard and the sunshine. The blood that had been rushing to Teresa's head the entire time suddenly seemed to stop. She felt numb, everywhere, aside from her leg. The nerves in it had frozen, completely dead. After a pause, she tried to move to the door. A chill stabbed through it, making her cry out, and it seized up completely. The muscles that had held her up had given their last. She collapsed, and fell to the ground. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there, everyone! I've been so happy to read everybody's comments and appreciated the love people have for this story. I'm going to be doing an author Q&A relatively soon- it'll be towards the end of the month, when I post the final chapter. There's still a couple more chapters to go before then, but I want to get a head start on questions! 
> 
> So that being said, if you guys have anything you want to ask me - about my writing process, characters, or even anything personal about me that you have on your mind - please feel free to leave a question along with your comments! I'll save them up and respond to them in a Q&A chapter (10) which will be posted after the actual final chapter. A great way to officially end the story, I think. 
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	6. Hermanos Músicos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ernesto finally sees what's so special about young Hector, and tries to get in on the music scene alongside him. Teresa has one last word in edgewise, although her influence on them both seems to be waning fast.

For as long as he could remember, Ernesto was acutely aware of his own situation in life, and refused to be a victim to circumstance. Once the opportunity came along to exercise his own autonomy in a situation that was less than ideal, he wouldn’t hesitate. He knew he needed more warmth, comfort, and nourishment than the children around him – he never seemed to be satisfied. Well, he figured, he wasn’t wrong for taking care of himself, for knowing his needs better than anyone else around him. His supposed caretakers always tried to treat him like all the other children, when he was so much more.

When they weren’t patting him on the head, they were yelling at him over one thing or another. He still remembered the days when the backs of his hands were covered in bruises. But he was no coward. He wasn’t afraid of anything, least of all any old women. Any consequences he dealt with for speaking his mind, for asserting his right to roam freely through the church and in town, were minimal compared to the reward of freedom. Old walls and strict regulations meant just that – he was never content living within limitations. It wasn’t his fault. He was just doing what he needed to do to stay sane, to stay alive. If they couldn’t see that…well, they were old, and Ernesto knew he was going to live forever.

But even though Ernesto’s first priority may have been protecting himself, he never even considered hurting the innocent to do so. He hated bullies. He distanced himself from their fights – self-preservation aside, which was a big factor, it was also beneath him. He wasn’t going to stoop to their level to get ahead. But one day, he’d stayed longer than normal on the field, and a scared little boy wandered into his path. He was followed shortly by two big brutes, big by the kid's comparison, but a couple years younger than Ernesto and a head shorter. With the odds in his favor, he couldn’t let their brutality stand.

“And what do you think you’re doing?” he challenged sternly, stepping in front of the kid. This almost deterred them, since no one had had the gall to stand up to them yet, but after sharing a look, their glares got meaner.

“Get out of the way, _vaquero_.” one mocked, showing Ernesto’s reputation for daredevil stunts had preceded him. “The runt’s ours.”

“Is that so?” The two boys were both locked into fighting stances, fists clenched, but Ernesto kept it cool. Seniority and an air of mystery could do just as effective a job as threats. “And what if he’s under my protection? You want to try and take him from me? I won't make it easy for you.”

“You don’t stand a chance, pretty boy.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re mistaken. I’m no pushover. And neither are my friends.”

Another confused look between them. He doubted they were thinking much at all. “What friends?”

“Oh, plenty you don’t know. Soldiers from the Mexican Army, for instance, coming through town. If you’re looking for some real tough _mulas_ , they’re your guys. And they’re itching for a fight. Should I let them know you’re interested?”

Okay, so maybe threats were on the table. Nothing substantial, but maybe they'd get the hint that he wasn't backing down so easily, even without numbers on his side. They scowled and backed off, losing interest once they realized their target wouldn't be easy. As they headed back towards their usual corner of the church to smoke, the kid beamed up at Ernesto, who was hit with a pretty satisfactory feeling himself. He hadn’t really ever used his ability of talking his way out of trouble to help anyone else before…it felt pretty heroic.

“ _Gracias_.”

He smiled down at the kid, who was all tooth and twig-thin. “ _No hay problema, chamaco_. I can’t stand _brutos_ who pick on little kids. But don't worry. You’re under my protection now. You’ll be all right.”

It was a bluff, like everything else. He'd find a way around any further confrontation if they chose to give him trouble again, like he always did. Still, he dusted off his knuckles on his jacket, like he’d been preparing for a fight all along. The look of admiration the younger boy gave him was almost as good as winning a fight – or so he imagined. He'd never actually been in a scrap yet, unless evading Sister Beatriz's wooden spoon in the kitchens counted. 

“You’re **her** boy, aren’t you? The one they’re always talking about. The one who's always in that sickroom?” he asked, slowly continuing to walk his path around the yard. Holding his arm tightly, the kid kicked the dirt as he walked with Ernesto, looking self-conscious.

“I mean…I guess so. They should at least tell you my name if they're talking about me. It's Héctor. You’re Ernesto, right? Teresa talks about you, too. You’ve broken more bones than anyone else she’s ever treated.”

Ernesto gave a confident smile. “Well, that comes with the territory around here.” A vague enough answer to seem cool, and he quickly ran a comb through his hair as he walked and talked. “You should learn to keep a lower profile, _chamaco_. You’ll get yourself a lot of bad attention if you keep relying on these old women to protect you. But no worries. You won't just be some sick little boy forever. I can teach you how to fight.”

“Oh, I, uh…maybe some other time.”

"Not a fighter, eh? Well, that'll change when you're older."

His conversation with the nuns earlier that day hadn't gone the way he wanted, but now here was a kid willing to listen. He asked Héctor’s opinion on a dog, and from him had gotten a response which lead to a brilliant idea. Cats, of course! Cats were a lot quieter, and so one would be easier to sneak in. If he could care for one in secret and then reveal to Teresa or any of the more pliable Sisters that he’d kept it alive on his own all along – well, they’d be wrong, and they'd have no choice but to give in to facts. He hated having to prove himself to anyone, but it would only be temporary.

But as he found out later that night, he'd gotten too confident in himself again. Sister Teresa hadn’t spotted the pregnant street cat he’d hid under his blankets at first, but something or someone must have clued her in, because she burst in the bedroom in the middle of the night. She put the cat back outside and proceeded to lecture him on things like rabies and responsibility...and every other kind of hill she wanted to die on.

Ernesto stood there and took it, quietly pondering. Had the kid ratted him out? He hadn’t known he was bringing a cat in that night, no one had. He thought about sulking, knowing it would make the sensitive kid feel guilty enough to fess up. But instead, he decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. Teresa was crafty after all, and probably had the kid around her little finger. Well, two could play at that game, if that’s what she was playing at after all.

Although Ernesto reaped the mental benefits of finally having an audience to play off of, it wasn’t a total commitment. Hector had been eager to befriend him, but hadn’t offered much in the way of change like Ernesto had hoped. Besides, Héctor wasn’t always around; many days he’d go into town without him, and Ernesto would be frustrated when he passed by and saw him sitting at the foot of some musical tramp, looking just as impressed by him as he would be by Ernesto. Maybe frustrated wasn’t the right word, it was too lingering an anger for that.

Ernesto would never admit it, never in words, but even though he’d once kept himself mentally separated from these kids, this one in particular he couldn’t bear to let go of. Hector was the only one he knew who cared about him, the only one he could rely on to be there when he needed someone…he couldn’t lose that. He had no one if he didn't have him. 

By the next year, the kid offered yet another benefit; Teresa had bought him a guitar, and he seemed born to play it. Now his trips into town were to play on street corners and outside the local school for other kids. Ernesto may have been green with jealousy over the musicians that took up Héctor's attention in the past, but he wasn’t blind; the more put-together of them pulled crowds of adoring fans, earned cash which was a freedom in itself, and could go wherever they wanted on their own time. It was exactly the life he wanted for himself, and Héctor with his skills on guitar had the key to it. Ernesto needed to learn it for himself, and with Hector's skill and his own unlimited potential, they could be stars. His ticket to freedom was finally in reach.

Ernesto begged Héctor to show him what he could - without seeming too desperate, of course. That’d be silly, when he was so much older. But the kid obliged, and over the course of a couple months Ernesto could finally grasp the basics, albeit on a smaller kid-size guitar than what he preferred. He certainly wasn’t going to play on it in front of other people, or show anyone that a kid was teaching him. He needed his own instrument to get the job done ultimately – a man’s weapon of choice. But that was easier said than done with no money. 

As always, he bided his time, hoping Héctor might be good enough friends to share any earnings. But that plan quickly fell apart when it became clear Hector wasn’t playing for any money. He didn't think Ernesto was important enough, apparently. But rather than fume, Ernesto got another idea into his head. The kid may have felt admiration, but he had no idea of who Ernesto really was, or what his life had been. He'd open up - piece by piece.

He let slip the old horror stories of Santa Cecilia, one at a time, and left out certain details he didn't think were important for the kid to know. Nuns beat children who didn't behave - he didn't give any notion of past tense. Many of them still harbored a grudge against him personally for being what they considered a problem child in the past - he didn't say anything about his once-strong bond with Sister Teresa that had devolved when she'd tried putting a leash on him like everyone else did. 

But, it was the narrative he put forward, and it was one that stuck. And in a way, it was still true -  his unfortunate encounter with Sister Juanna in the basilica had been enough to let him know he was still resented, still alone. Bringing those emotional memories to the forefront now helped him gain sympathy, helped him sell himself as a martyr. Hector could sense the anger and pain were real, and was buying everything he told him, most of the time in stunned silence. But sometimes, it would get too real, too close to the truth, to actual vulnerability. Ernesto hated himself for that, but the kid didn't seem to - sometimes he could sense the storm coming even before he did, and despite the height difference he'd reach up to pat him on the shoulder, lean into his side comfortingly or try to hold his hand. Ernesto would back off if it got too much, and the kid would automatically apologize - but even Ernesto knew he didn't mean any harm. Far from it.

Ernesto would scoff and pat him on the head. "Hey, it's not your fault. You've been raised around too many women. Men don't do things like that."

Héctor shrugged, doubtfully. "Maybe some of them do."

"Well, not a lot. I know real men, kid, and you've got to be tough with them. Listen-"

Ernesto finally had given himself enough time to put his plan together. He had studied the shop where the local guitars were made, glancing in the windows out of sight of the owner and his four angry dogs. All of the instruments were expertly made, and looked pretty light to carry. Ernesto knew he was getting too big to attempt a break-in, but the kid was small enough, and nobody would suspect him.

After months of holding it in, he pushed the idea by him on a grey, rainy day at the church, when no one would have suspected he'd be going out. "I could finally play with you, Héctor! We could play like the musicians in town, and we could get out of this place, see the world." Ernesto pleaded.

"Ernesto, we can't break in to someone's shop-"

"Héctor, I need this. I need to grow as a musician, on my own, and I can't do that without my own guitar."

"If I ask Teresa to help, then maybe-"

"Héctor, there's no hope with her." Ernesto rolled his eyes. "You can't trust these sisters. They say one thing, then do another. Even if you found one that said she'd consider buying me a guitar...they'd only say it for your sake. They love you. They protect what they love, but when they hate...it's forever."

He allowed himself a small flash of anger and fear, which Hector caught onto right away. "Then let me help - I can buy it for you. I just need time."

"I'm running **out** of time, Héctor. I'm thirteen years old. You think they're going to let me stay around this place forever?"

"The Sisters said they'd never throw any kid out on the street."

"They told **you** that, remember?" Ernesto sighed. "Héctor, I need that guitar. But everyone knows who I am. I can't go in there. Those dogs can smell me from a mile away. And what about the Sisters? If I'm caught, they'd finally have the excuse they want to throw me out early - not before crippling me for life."

"They wouldn't do that!" Héctor reacted quickly, fighting with everything he knew to be true - but he knew Ernesto believed what he said. "Right?"

Ernesto sighed. "God only knows. But I don't want that hanging over me anymore, Héctor, I need my own trade. My own guitar. You're the only one who can help me do this, _hermano_."

Héctor had all but given in once Ernesto had called him his brother, and offered, as Ernesto had hoped, to get the guitar himself and refused any of Ernesto's pleas to help. He'd only get caught, and the risk to him was greater. Perfect. That night, Ernesto could finally sleep in peace, knowing by morning he'd get what he wanted without any struggle.

If this crossed a line, Ernesto never allowed himself to consider it. He learned early on that to survive, he must keep his emotions tamped down, unless it suited his purposes. Never show any fear, pain, and definitely no tears to anyone who could take advantage, or he’d have a target on his back. And the more time he spent outside in Santa Cecilia, among the men of the world, he learned a man had to hold his own. Weakness was not something he could allow. A man should take what was his. And never apologize.

* * *

Teresa had had some rough awakenings, but nothing compared to this next one. Sister Nina, up late, had knocked on her door telling her Héctor had just come back in. Teresa may have been tired, but she was awake enough to knew that wasn't a regular occurrence. 

"Back **in**?!” Teresa threw her robe on over her dress, as she stood slowly. “From where?! It’s nearly morning. You mean he's been out all night?"

“He must have snuck out. He’s never…I’ve never seen him do this before.” Nina said dumbfounded. "I caught him. He's waiting outside."

Teresa leaned against the bedpost, trying not to let it show that the wind was knocked out of her. She breathed in a lungful of cold twilight air, knowing she’d hate the next few minutes. “Bring him in. Now.” she demanded. 

When Héctor came to her, a large guitar in his hands, shifting his feet, she didn’t need to ask questions about what he'd been up to. She saw the red mark on his bare ankle, the bite of an angry guard dog, and glared at him.

“Don’t say a word. Just sit down. That bite’s fresh.” She went over to her cabinet, slowly, leaning against the sturdy wood desk. Hector sat on the bed obediently, still shaking and looking very scared and small. As she went back and sat across from him, she kept the authority in her voice despite her obvious weakness.

“I know you didn’t steal this for yourself. You may have been stupid to do this, but you’re not greedy.” She dabbed at the wound, though most of the blood had long dried. “Tell me, now. Who was this for?”

He wouldn’t meet her eyes, setting the guitar down by his side. “A…a friend. Just a friend.” he stammered.

“No, Héctor, not this time." she growled. "You’re going to give me names.” Reaching behind her for a bandage, she still kept her attention firmly on him. When he fell silent once again, she let out a frustrated grumble.

“I am done with this foolishness. You’re going to tell me – **now**. I’m sick of you protecting people who don’t deserve it.” 

"Please, I don’t care if I get in trouble, just-”

“You don’t care if you get in trouble?!” Teresa interrupted, voice rising to an intimidating bellow. “You’d do this again, is that right? Have I taught you nothing?!” She stood up, without thinking, attempting to walk away in disgust but making it only a couple steps before reality caught up to her and she stumbled, leaning against the wall to avoid falling entirely. Héctor tried to stand and help her, but even without looking she held up a hand to stop him.

“No, Héctor, stay.” She rose up shakily, turned herself around, and lectured from where she stood. “Whoever this boy was, he knew you would take the fall for him, he was too much a coward to take responsibility. He... _madre di dios_ , it **was** Ernesto, wasn't it?” She shook her head, clenching her teeth in barely-restrained rage. “I should have known. Using you as a shield. That boy has sunken too low for me to understand.”

Making her way back to the bed, slowly, leaning heavily against the wall, Héctor objected to her judgement. "It’s not his fault! He needed one, he knew he couldn’t get one without me. He said the nuns would throw him out, they'd cripple him, they-”

“You don’t know anything about us if you think we wouldn’t bend heaven and hell to help you children.” She cut him off angrily, sitting back down with a wince, but still in control. “We’ve done so all our lives. You think we’re uncaring? Is that what he told you? That we were cruel? You’ve lived with us your whole life, Héctor, you can’t think that way yourself.”

“He…he said you hit children.” He looked away from her, in tears. "I know that one's true. He showed me scars. Why didn't you tell me?"

She bit her lip, and could sense tears forming in her own eyes, out of frustration. “I never hit a child in my life, Héctor. Some of the other Sisters used to, under Sister Juanna. They considered it discipline. I knew better. So did most of my friends - we put an end to it. I never wanted children to live in fear again.”

She sighed to herself, and wiped her eyes clear. “This isn't about Ernesto, Héctor, or what happened in the past. This is about what you did tonight. You stole from someone. You’ve hurt another person. You have broken the commandments of our Lord. You don’t want to become a thief, do you?”

“No. I’m sorry.”

Rising up again, more slowly and carefully this time, she made her way over to the cane resting against the dresser. She took a break once she reached her desk, and even leaning against the chair for support her resolve was strong. “Tomorrow, you’ll return the guitar.” she ordered him.

“I can’t!”

“You’re going to.” Teresa insisted angrily. She sensed panic rather than defiance, but she wasn’t going to let it slide. This was too serious. “And you’re going to apologize to the shop owner whose hard work you spit on.” she said bitingly. 

“He said he needs it.” Héctor had only one goal now, and despite walking a fine line seemed just as adamant. “He said you wouldn't help him get what he needed. That you didn't care about him. So if you take what he needs away from him now...wouldn't he be right?"

"Don't try talking like him, Héctor. That doesn't work on me." she snapped. "This has gone far enough.” As she grabbed her cane, she saw him flinch unexpectedly. When she followed his gaze back to her hand, she put the wooden stick back in its place. 

“If you’re going to hurt anyone – hurt me.” He seemed resigned to this outcome, though he was still trembling. “He-he didn’t do anything wrong. It’s my fault. Don’t hurt him, please.”

Teresa was shocked; she hadn't intended the action to be seen as a threat at all. “ _Dios mio,_ do you know me so little? You think I would ever hurt you?" she asked, appalled. "You are my heart, _mijo_. I would rather die than hurt you, or any child here.”

He looked devastated, more than she even felt, and despite her anger she couldn't allow that. She made her way back over to him, and when she sat down on the bed again she hugged him tightly. “You should have come to me with this. I could have helped you.  My heart is broken and I’m angry, but I’m glad you’re safe. Never do anything like this again. Promise me."

"I...I will. And Ernesto, he-?"

She let him go, and gave him a tiny reassuring smile. “You don’t have to worry about Ernesto. I’ll talk with him in the morning. There will be consequences for you both, but it won’t be unreasonable. You won't have to set foot in that terrible man's store again, and we're definitely not going to throw Ernesto out to the dogs."

"I told him that too, he wouldn't listen-"

"He thinks we're all liars. Our bodies may be shriveled, but our hearts aren't. Some more so than others. Now go to bed. Leave the rest to me.”

As Héctor headed towards the door, he stopped midway to look back at the guitar. “Should I leave-?”

“A figure of speech, Héctor. Take the guitar.” she sighed. “Give him something good to wake up to, before I get a hold of him.” That probably hadn’t helped him worry less, and she retracted it once she saw him flinch again. “Héctor…that's also a figure of speech. He’ll be okay, I promise.”

While ‘okay’ still fell under a nonviolent description, Teresa was still furious at the older boy for getting Héctor to do his dirty work for him. Lashing out was far beyond what her conscience would allow, but trying to talk with him reasonably hadn’t worked in the past. He’d always just blown her off. Having to become what he hated, an authority, would work better than anything – and she already wasn’t far off.

She set off for the nearby abandoned barn, where he often chose to sleep, right before sunrise, with her cane in tow. She’d been using it for the last couple weeks, ever since the terrible fall she’d had, and it still took some getting used to. But she had no choice, and at her age she knew she’d probably need it for the rest of her life. Still, it was slow going, and she reached the barn after sunrise had broke. Inside, she heard tiny half-halted strings of music playing. Ernesto was enjoying his guitar, for the moment.

When she creaked the barn door open further, enough to be noticed, she heard him stop immediately. Without a word, she went over to the ladder that led to the loft, and tapped on the wood roof above her head. No answer. She grit her teeth.

“Ernesto – I know you’re up there. It’s Teresa. I need a word with you.”

There was still no sound or movement. Teresa knew she wasn't capable of going up to get him herself, nor did she want to, so she sat on a bale of hay nearby. Uncomfortable as it was, it fit the mood of the situation perfectly.

"Well, if you're not going to come down, I can stay here until you do. It's your choice." She crossed her arms. "Make it easier on yourself, Ernesto."

Hearing a nondescript grumble, she saw a foot come down over the last rung of the ladder to the loft, followed by another, and eventually a sulking Ernesto had made his way down the rungs. He had guessed easily what she was there for, and didn't have any excuses prepared. She wouldn't fall for them anyway. Instead, he showed his teenage attitude and crossed his own arms in front of her instead. 

"It's too early to be doing this, Teresa." he complained.

"You can't sleep in your whole life, though Heaven knows you try." she shot back, and rose up slowly. "Come with me. We need to talk."

"Can't you just tell me I'm already in trouble?"

She rolled her eyes. "Humor a dying woman, Ernesto. I like to pretend I have some seniority around here. And I need the exercise."

As absolutely not a fan of this plan as he was, he was at least patient enough to keep pace with her as she made her way back to the church, over to the courtyard. She walked in a long circle, with him by her side. She stared at him while he was glancing often over his shoulder towards the open field, eager to escape.

"Ernesto, you could have just come to me for help. I've offered it often." she told him.

"You wouldn't understand." he dismissed.

"Of course I do. You want to get out of this place. That's what you've always wanted. And that's our goal for all our children; to find them a home outside these walls."

"I don't need a home. I'm not a child."

She stopped, frowning at him. "You may not be a child, but you should stop behaving like a baby. Listen to other people sometimes." She tried walking again but soon had to take a small break, breathing heavily where she stood before continuing.

"You've disappointed me." 

"Often, I know." he interjected sarcastically, bitterly. 

"No, not often." she fought back. "But today, yes, I'm very upset.” She looked at him with muted anger, holding onto the head of her cane with a steel grip that said more than words. “You know what you did. You tricked Héctor into thinking you were his friend, just so you could get him to steal. You used him, Ernesto. You hurt my boy. I don’t appreciate that.”

“You didn’t tell him that, did you?” Now he was concerned, and it seemed not to be just for his own sake. “I wasn’t lying to him. He is my friend. He…I know it’s silly to be friends with a kid, but…Héctor’s different. He always has been, you know that. I asked him to do it, because he’s the only person who would have helped me.”

“That isn’t true at all. We-”

“You wouldn't have done anything. All you’ve ever done is watch me and lecture me and try to make me be something I’m not. But he doesn’t judge me. If I go out into town late, if I gamble and drink, if I smoke, even steal…he doesn’t turn on me. And he’s really good at what he does, and he’s been teaching me a lot of different things with music. It’s something I wouldn’t have fallen in love with if it wasn’t for him.”

Teresa sensed this was the most genuine Ernesto had ever been with her. She thought it over carefully. “Ernesto, it seems I was wrong. But not entirely. You still manipulated him. If he was your friend, you knew he’d be the kind of friend to never give you up, to take the fall for your transgression."

"What other kind of friends are there? I'd do the same for him." 

"But he's not like you. He wouldn't put you in that position." she argued. "And you still lied to him.” Remembering how scared Héctor had been of her, for the first time in his life, her blood boiled again. "You made him believe I'd hurt him. You told him the nuns were a danger, when you knew it wasn't true."

"Well...it's been true in the past..."

"Not with me, Ernesto, never with me! You knew that!" Her voice rose to a passionate pitch. "Don't pin this on a misunderstanding. You lied to him. You let him get hurt for you - he's got a dog bite on his ankle I don't think will ever heal properly. It's the same as if you'd bitten him yourself."

"I don't hurt children, and unlike the rest of you, I didn't need some dumb committee to make me realize that! You don't know anything about it!" he yelled back, just as vocally. "He's the only friend I've got!"

"And whose fault is that?"

This hit hard, and Ernesto backed off, stunned. Teresa held her ground. "You've wanted people to like you, yet you've pushed everyone who could help you away the second they do something you don't like. For as long as I've known you, you've been like that."

"You don't know me." he said, weakly. 

She shook her head. "I knew you when you were in diapers, Ernesto. I've been there with you your whole life. I wanted you to turn out to be a good man. But this path you're on won't lead to that."

"Not everyone can be a man of the church, Teresa."

"That's not what I mean. You don't show any remorse for what you've done. You never have. Even when it's hurt others." She sighed. "I don't know how to tell you something you should already know by now. People aren't tools for you to use, Ernesto. They're human beings."

The look of confusion still played on his face, and she sighed. "I know you're only waiting for the right moment to get away from me. You never listen. I can't make you." She walked a little farther, until she reached the old boulder, the odd one out in the courtyard, that could serve as her resting place yet again. She sat down. "Well, go on. You've always been telling me how much of a man you are, and you will be soon. Go. Make your own mistakes. Invent new ones. I can't stop you and I'm done with trying."

She'd reached that point. Her heart was heavy, and she needed to give it some release by caring about one thing less. As Ernesto obliged her and ran through the field back to his barn, probably to sleep and forget he ever had the conversation, she shut her eyes and prayed. Not for herself, she knew she was out of patience. But when Ernesto came back to find his guitar gone, locked away along with Hector's guitar for the next year, she prayed he wouldn't do anything reckless.


End file.
